Misfit in Middle earth
by Doris the Younger
Summary: This isn't a movie. She's not an action hero. And Middle-earth is a very dangerous place to be. Trapped in the throes of a terrible World War, can an American college student help Princess Éowyn save her people from the deadly malice of Saruman?
1. On the Cold Hill Side

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas: eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are my own.

Yes, yes, the 'fall into' storyline has been done to death, but love it or hate it, this one's mine. And folks…I know what you're thinking, but this is not, repeat not, a case of authoress self-insert. It is simply written in 'first person.' Call me Ishmael.

**01 On the Cold Hill Side**

My name is Barb Sanderson and this is the story of what happened to me in Middle-earth. It's not a pretty fairy tale, or an old Celtic myth, or an epic fantasy adventure—as a matter of fact, some of it was pretty awful. I guess it's no wonder I missed out on most of the High Romance—I was a grad student, after all, not a beautiful elven princess.

When Mom gave me the sterling silver necklace that looked so much like Arwen's Evenstar, I thought at first that it was a movie tie-in from the Fellowship picture. But no, she said she'd picked it up years ago when she was in college herself. She was a big LOTR fan then, back when they had just the books. You have to understand—my mother's always been nuts about this stuff. In the sixties she was a Trekkie, in the seventies she migrated to Star Wars. It drove me crazy for years, until I finally got used to it. Now, of course, she was big on LOTR again, and she was bound and determined to haul me off to see _The Two Towers_ on Christmas Day.

But first I was going to a party on Christmas Eve with some high school friends. When they found out I'd come home from Colorado for the holidays I was invited at the last minute. I quickly dug through my suitcases to find out what party clothes I'd brought along, and realized that the 'Evenstar' actually looked pretty decent with midnight blue velvet. Fortunately, nobody at the party recognized the necklace; I'd gotten more than enough "movie heroine" jokes back in high school.

As you may recall, 2002 was the year of the big East Coast snowstorm. I was driving home around midnight, creeping along at 20 mph and praying that I wouldn't wind up in a snow bank, when a pair of headlights came up right in front of my car and blinded me. The icy dazzle spread and spread and spread until it seemed that there was nothing left in the world but brilliant white light. And then I blacked out.

*************

When I finally woke up, I opened my eyes to see a clear blue, practically cloudless sky. It was well after dawn. My whole body hurt, and I was lying on a patch of frozen, rocky ground that was sucking all the warmth out of me. The air was still really cold, but I was wearing my ski jacket over my party dress, so I thought I'd be okay if I got up and moved around. Trying to shake the cobwebs out of my aching head, I picked myself up and took a good look at where I was.

I couldn't believe my eyes.

The car was gone. And the road was gone. And the snow was gone. The morning was bright and crisp, and somehow there was no trace of last night's snow and sleet. I was standing in the middle of a dry grass prairie. Where were the trees I'd been driving through? Had somebody clearcut them all? It looked like I was lost in a totally strange place, a place I'd never seen before. This was crazy!

I was pretty scared, but my first order of business had to be to find out where I was. And locate someplace warm that had coffee. I thought I smelled wood smoke coming from the direction of the mountains to the south (judging my direction by the sun), so I decided to hike toward them. Maybe I'd run into a forest ranger.

The tall grass of the prairie rolled on and on for uninterrupted miles until it finally reached a range of white-capped peaks that shone like glass Christmas tree ornaments. The mountains were beautiful, but they certainly weren't the Blue Mountains of Pennsylvania that I'd driven through the night before. They looked more like the Colorado Rockies, all pointy and sharp-angled. But I couldn't have been transported over fifteen hundred miles overnight! Anyway, the Rocky Mountains ran north to south. These mountains ran mostly east to west.

So I began to walk, and kept looking all around in the hope I'd recognize my surroundings. And I started to feel a chill that had nothing to do with the cold air. To be lost in the wilderness with no outdoor gear was dangerous. But even worse, I was in a situation that made absolutely no sense. Where on Earth could I possibly be? Why didn't I see any roads, or telephone poles, or jet trails? And what mountains **were** these? The Adirondacks? The Grand Tetons? The Himalayas?

Hearing the trill of a birdsong from a clump of grass, I squinted intently into its hiding place to see if I could recognize the songbird. If I'd been able to identify its species, that might have given me a clue to my location. But I'm no naturalist—all little brown birds look pretty much alike to me.

After I'd walked for about a mile, I caught sight of three men riding on horseback in the distance. I yelled as loud as I could and waved my arms to catch their attention, and sighed with relief as they galloped forward to meet me. But when they got closer, it became clear that they weren't forest rangers—they were all dressed up in medieval armor. Metal helmets, shields, chainmail, swords —that kind of stuff.

That was pretty nerve-wracking, but somehow they didn't seem deranged or anything. When their horses reached the place where I was standing, the man in front leaned down to get a good look at me. I couldn't see much of his face, what with the helmet and all, but I could tell that he was tall and burly and had long reddish-brown hair and a beard.

"Lady, this is no place for a woman to walk alone," he told me in a harsh but kind voice. "There are many evil things entering Rohan from the north these days—wolves, orcs and even worse. They would cut your throat without thinking twice."

Now I was really scared—and it wasn't because of the armor he was wearing, or the 'orcs and wolves,' or even the 'throat-cutting' thing. I was scared the most because I realized that he was speaking in some sort of old Germanic dialect that I'd never encountered before—but which I could nevertheless suddenly understand perfectly. It was like the 'Universal Translator' in Star Trek, and as a student of linguistics, I knew that wasn't possible.

Who'd been messing around inside my head while I was asleep?

"Where am I? Who are you people? What's going on here?" I heard myself asking him in the same language.

The armored man swung down from his horse, a big bay gelding with a "touch me without my permission and I bite" look in its eye. "I am Háma, Captain of King Théoden's household in Rohan. Who are you? Have you companions who need rescue as well?"

"I…no, I'm alone. My name's Barb. And I don't understand what's happening…" My voice was shaking but I don't think I actually screamed. "Please help me!"

Háma, bless him, didn't bother trying to interrogate a near-hysterical woman. He simply remounted and swung me up behind him as if I was a sack of potatoes. I'm not much of a horsewoman, and I didn't think I could manage to ride sidesaddle, so I hiked up my skirt and hauled up my right foot over the saddle so I could grip the horse's sides with both legs. My nylons had already died the death, anyhow.

Before we got going, I couldn't help but ask one forlorn, stupid question. "I don't suppose we're anywhere near Harrisburg?"

"I have never heard of the Harrisburg. Do you mean the Hornburg? It is about ten leagues to the west."

I shook my head and Háma clicked his tongue at his mount to turn the horse around. As we rode along in the direction they'd been going, the two of us somehow managed to survive the ride—although I did have to train myself not to dig my fingers into Háma's side every time we hit a bump. One of his men followed behind us, while the younger horseman broke away to ride back to the north.

Riding behind Háma wasn't easy. It was hard to keep my seat on that flat-as-a-pancake saddle. Besides, his fish-scale armor was jabbing into me constantly, and his back was so broad that my fingers didn't meet when I stretched my arms around it. Eventually I just grabbed onto his wide leather belt and held on for dear life.

Now that I'd encountered Háma and his medieval coterie, I was able to tick off some more alarming new discoveries—together with a few that I'd been trying hard to ignore. This 'Universal Translator' business, for one thing. The fact that I'd somehow appeared in a country where they spoke Old Germanic, for another. And finally, what about my injuries from the car accident? I didn't have any! Not even a chipped nail!

There had to be a rational explanation for it all, but what was it? So many weird things were happening that I felt like I'd been dropped into the Twilight Zone! I really wanted to panic, but then I asked myself, "What would Mom say about all this?" Mom's middle name might as well be 'Moonbeam'—she loves this kind of weirdness!

What I came up with was: "_Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune, but do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness."_

Believe it or not, I felt a lot better after that little 'Desiderata' moment. Mom would have been proud of me. And sooner or later, if I kept my eyes and ears open, I would figure out a rational, logical answer about where I really was.

After a couple of hours of riding, we crested a little rise and I saw a big old building that was sitting on the very top of a distant hill. It was a wood and stone castle painted all over with golden Celtic knotwork. The castle was surrounded by a high stake palisade and a whole hillful of crummy little thatched huts. And no, you don't have to tell me—there are no castles in Pennsylvania.

Somehow, when I absorbed the sight of that golden hall, the puzzle pieces suddenly snapped together. Rohan, Théoden, orcs—I'd heard those words before. They were all names from 'Lord of the Rings', the trilogy that I'd done my best to avoid ever since I stepped off the plane from Colorado. But these people weren't a bunch of fantasy reenactors—this was reality!

Obviously I wasn't in Pennsylvania anymore. Could I actually be in Tolkien's Middle-earth?

Rolling the idea around in my head, I discovered that I didn't like it a bit. This was the sort of thing that would happen in one of Mom's sci-fi movies. Not to me! I was a normal person with a normal life, and I hadn't fallen down any rabbit holes recently.

But ever since my parents got divorced, I've known that there's no point in disbelieving something just because you don't want it to be true. I'd been looking for an explanation for the day's impossibilities, and here it was. It just wasn't rational or logical. Everything I'd seen and heard since I woke up matched Professor Tolkien's books perfectly: the unfamiliar mountains, the ancient prairie untouched by a plow, the men's costumes that looked medieval, but were also well-worn—and above all the archaic tongue that seemed to be the language du jour. I'd never read _The_ _Lord of the Rings_, but Mom had told me all about Tolkien's invented languages—she thought that I'd be interested in his linguistics, at least. I was, kind of—that's a lot of work just to write a fantasy trilogy.

It would have been much easier to believe that I was dreaming, or in a coma, or something—except that I never dream in color. So I didn't need to pinch myself—I was awake. If I was going to believe what I'd seen with my own eyes—and believe me, I didn't really want to—I'd been dumped right into the middle of the movie I was supposed to be watching that very day. The one that was so full of exciting battle scenes.

Why was I here? Who or what had brought me to this place? And most important of all, how could I get back to where I belonged? My first instinct was to scream as hard as I could for help. But there was no use in screaming; nobody would be able to help me. I'd be much better off if I kept my mouth shut and waited to see what was going to happen next.

When we finally rode into the castle courtyard, the commoners on the ground scurried hastily to either side so they wouldn't be ridden down by the horsemen. High above us on the battlements I saw a flash of white—just a glimpse of a woman with really long, pale blonde hair—then Háma dismounted and helped me get off his horse as well. I felt sorer than ever.

Háma brought me into a big central hall that smelled of dust and hay, with a certain tang of horse manure. The hall was full of carved gold-painted pillars, so it seemed smaller than it actually was. It was also pretty dark, almost gloomy, although by then it was midafternoon. The windows were few, and covered with shutters. There were a few candles mounted here and there on the pillars, and some charcoal braziers, but they didn't give off much light.

We were met by raised voices coming from a cluster of armored men standing next to the faded tapestries on the opposite wall. Two big fellows in armor (Éomer and Théodred, I later learned) were yelling at a smaller greasy-looking guy wearing dark stringy robes. An older man whose long white hair made him look a little like Santa Claus entered through a hallway door, and everybody fell silent, as if they were embarrassed. 'Santa' made a quick chopping gesture with his left hand and left by the same door with the greasy Mr. Iago.

Immediately after that, the blonde woman from the battlements walked in through another door. She must have hurried very fast to have gotten down to the hall so swiftly.

When I first saw her coming toward us I knew she had to be important, because all of those big strong men moved instantly to the left or the right to let her pass. Besides, her gold-embroidered white gown probably cost ten times more than any dress I'd ever bought in my whole off-the-rack life.

"Háma, who is this stranger you bring to us?" The fairy-tale princess was speaking in the same Germanic tongue as Háma, but her voice had a bit of a foreign accent from some other language that wasn't quite as guttural.

Háma's answer sounded quite deferential. "She told me that her name is 'Barb', Princess Éowyn. We found her wandering by herself in the plains north of Edoras. I thought that surely she must have companions, so I sent Haldred north to look for them. But she says she's alone."

Princess Éowyn looked me up and down me in wonderment, as if I was some sort of exotic animal or foreign celebrity instead of a lost waif. By that time I'd made up my mind what I was going to have to say. 'Guess what, you're in a movie' wasn't going to cut it. If I was going to survive, I had to act and talk as much like the locals as possible, and not raise too many awkward questions.

"I have no idea how I got here, Princess Éowyn—and my name is Barbarella." Yeah, my mom named me after Jane Fonda's character in the sci-fi movie. Barbarella really **is** a girl's given name—if you happen to come from France! But it did sound more or less 'forsoothly,' which is what I needed right then. I would have curtseyed if I'd known how to do it right. Instead I looked down at my feet and tried to look bewildered, which turned out not to be difficult at all. "I must have been in some kind of accident, because I don't remember what happened to me, but I know that I'm not from anywhere around here."

Éowyn reached past Háma and patted my hand as if she was my elderly maiden aunt instead of a young woman of about my own age. "Do not be afraid, Barbarella. Someone may already be looking for you, and I will take charge of you and protect you until we find your people."

When I heard her say that, I felt safe. In the midst of all this weirdness I'd found somebody who understood how afraid I was, and who cared whether I lived or died—even though I'd done nothing whatsoever to deserve her help. Either she was a lot more charitable than I am, or unselfish kindness was the Rohan National Trait.

*************

Well, of course "my people" didn't show up to claim me, so Éowyn decided to take me on as her new handmaiden. Nobody in the court of Rohan seemed surprised about this appointment, which was actually quite an honor. I guess they assumed that any woman who wore velvet and had uncalloused hands had to be nobility at least.

It turned out that the Princess had desperately needed an assistant/gopher for some time. She was almost as much alone in this hall of men as I was. No other women lived in Meduseld—that was the royal household—except for scullery staff and elderly widows of warriors. Her uncle, King Théoden, had obviously let domestic matters slide for a long time, and hadn't given Éowyn much support to fix up the castle.

Just running Éowyn's errands seemed to help her a lot, and almost made me feel like I was earning my keep. I couldn't sew worth a lick, but I could at least brush and hang up her clothes, and see that they were kept in good order, so she didn't have to bother. As you can imagine, ancient castles = no closets.

There was one time that I did try to do my medieval duty and tackle Éowyn's sewing. It was a bright clear morning, the only possible time to do fine work in a gloomy place like Meduseld, and I'd taken Éowyn's sewing basket to her sunroom. As I was sorting through the clothes heap, I instantly rejected the stockings that needed darning and the stiff wool skirt with the kicked-out hem. The nightrail with the unraveling cross-stitch was also a no-go, but her blue linen blouse only needed a single horn button. I figured that even I might be able to handle that.

Putting on a button wasn't as easy as I'd assumed. After I'd squandered considerable time struggling with a large, stiff needle, I heard a soft footstep and looked up to discover that Éowyn had found me at my work. She watched me for awhile and then asked with some amusement, "Barbarella, didn't your mother ever teach you to sew?"

I shrugged and let the blouse drop into my lap. "No, she never did. She did teach me to macramé, though."

"Give me my riding shirt and I'll show you how to do it," Éowyn ordered with a smile.

A trifle humiliated, I obediently handed Éowyn the shirt and the needle and thread. She sat down right next to me on the wooden bench and set to work with a flourish. After watching her for a while, I cleared my throat and pointed out diffidently, "Um…I think you're sewing that button on the wrong side."

Surprised, Éowyn turned the garment inside out to examine her stitchery and realized that I was right. Then she laughed. "You know, my mother never taught me to sew either."

Throwing down the shirt, she said suddenly, "Let's leave this task for the seamstresses. They sew so much better than I do, and I'd rather teach you how to ride instead. Horsemanship is much more important in Rohan than sewing, anyway."

So after all, my life as a handmaiden was not all drudgery. Mostly, that's the way things worked out for me in Meduseld—Éowyn made sure that my life was wasn't too hard to bear. In return I tried to make sure that her life was bearable too.

Ultimately, it turned out that what Éowyn needed the most was another woman to keep her company in the dark hours of the night.

I don't mean that the way it sounds.

You have to understand, in Meduseld a handmaiden sleeps right there in the lady's bower with her. When it came time for us to go to bed, I'd change into nightclothes, set a warm charcoal brazier in its holder at the foot of Éowyn's great big four-poster, close the heavy brocaded drapes to keep in the heat, then slip under the covers alongside her. After that we'd discuss the things and the people that had worried us that day, until we finally went to sleep.

Of course most of my worries I couldn't talk about, even to Éowyn. I was willing to admit that I was scared that I'd do the wrong thing and shame us both, that I was afraid I'd never get back to my home, that I feared I'd forget everything I'd ever learned as a scholar. Once I even broke down and told her that I hoped my mother thought I was dead, so she'd stop worrying about me. But say to a princess of Rohan that I belonged in another world—no.

Anyway, it was much more suitable for me to listen to the Princess's troubles, and poor Éowyn sure had an awful lot of them. Everyone knew that we were getting more orc attacks all the time. Her cousin Théodred and her brother Éomer were holding them off so far, but Rohan's forces were beginning to lose men. Her uncle, King Théoden, was failing in health very rapidly. Some people—and I was one of them—thought that his judgement was slipping too. And what was even worse, Théoden's chief counsellor Gríma was systematically taking control of the King's mind.

The Princess couldn't understand why her uncle kept listening to Gríma. He was a slimy guy who loved to rub his hands together and make nasty cutting remarks about the warriors who were risking their lives to save Rohan, he was doing his best to discredit all of the King's relatives so that the King wouldn't listen to anyone else but him, and finally—this was the capper—he was never seen wearing anything but black villain outfits. No wonder all the warriors called him 'Gríma Wormtongue' behind his back—and sometimes to his face. From a movie trailer or something, I knew that Gríma was a pawn of the evil Wizard Saruman, but even excluding that, could any sane person honestly believe that he wasn't a traitor?

I'm not sure which of us, Éowyn or myself, finally brought up the big question one night:

"Do you think Théoden is being poisoned?"

In the darkness of the bower, I heard a long, whistling sigh. "Over and over," she confessed, "I have drunk from the King's cup. I have eaten morsels from his plate. But every time, I taste nothing unusual."

For a moment I was stumped, but unlike Éowyn, I'd read quite a number of mystery novels. "That doesn't necessarily prove anything. There are lots of other kinds of poisons. Contact poisons, for example. A dust sprinkled on his pillow, a venom into which his shirt is dipped, an ointment rubbed on his saddle. Or gaseous poisons. A puddle that slowly becomes a lethal vapor, a tainted incense or perfume, a tarry lump that emits noxious fumes when it's burned…"

The bedcovers rustled as Éowyn sat up and crept on her knees to the foot of the bed. Wordlessly, she flipped open the heated brazier at our feet. Illuminated by the reddish glow of the fire, she stared in horror at the seemingly innocuous charcoal inside it. "So the poison could be almost anywhere, almost anything. You frighten me, Barbarella. Who taught you all these terrible practices?"

Uh oh. This could be really bad. "I swear to you, Princess—I have never touched a poison in my life. I told you—I was a student. All I know is what I have read in books."

There was a long, dead moment of silence, then Éowyn clinked down the copper lid and scooted back under the heavy covers. "I believe you. If I cannot tell the difference between a false heart and a true heart, then I can believe in nothing. Tell me, what else do you know?"

I was okay then. When Éowyn gave you her word you could take it to the bank. Suddenly one more LOTR memory surfaced. Wasn't there supposed to be a spider somewhere in _The Two Towers_? I frowned, trying to remember. "By the way, has the King ever complained about insect bites? I've read of lands where there are so many venomous creeping things, you have to shake out your shoes before you put them on."

From Éowyn's side of the bed, I heard a giggle. "I don't think even Gríma Wormtongue could harness a bedbug to his will. And no, my uncle has never complained of being bitten." Calming down, she said with total determination, "Any of the awful possibilities that you describe may in fact be happening. Somehow we must find a way to hinder this villainy."


	2. A 21st Century Yankee in Théoden's Court

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Just in case you were wondering—yes, yes, I would love to see comments.

**02 A 21****st**** Century Yankee in King Th****é****oden's Court**

By the next morning, Éowyn had thought up a way. Marching down with me to the warriors' hall, she made her brother Éomer put a dozen strong lads under my command. Their mission was to help me give Meduseld the most horrendously thorough housecleaning it had seen in a generation. Most of the kids were the sons of Éomer's own éored, so they couldn't say no.

Armed with mops, brooms, buckets, brushes, and rags, my lucky fellowship followed me upstairs to Prince Théodred's rooms. I thought it best to postpone work on the King's chambers until Théoden saddled up to review the warriors on outpost. He wouldn't have time to waste on argument then.

I hadn't run into Éowyn's cousin very often—he devoted nearly all of his energy to combat and horses. Prince Théodred always sat at the boisterous end of the dining hall, in the midst of the loud voices and the overflowing ale tankards and the occasional bread fight. I'm not sure whether he was actually junior to Éomer, but unlike most of the Riders of Rohan he was beardless, so he definitely looked younger. More of a Tobey Maguire than an Arnold Schwarzenegger. He also had the reputation of being a joker, which turned out to be quite true.

When I rapped for entrance to his chamber, Théodred opened the carved wooden door to confront his cousin's new handmaiden and a ragtag bunch of towheaded boys who were toting all the cleaning supplies in the world. Dressed in old woolen smocks, we must have looked like a bunch of farm laborers. "What are you doing here, Barbarella? Boys, what are all those… implements… that you're carrying?"

Yup, wouldn't know a mop if it smacked him in the face.

Like most of the men of Rohan, Théodred was huge—at least 6' 4" and with shoulders like a fullback. He was looking down at me with one of those frank, cutie-pie smiles that always make me think, 'uh oh.'

"Princess Éowyn has ordered us to thoroughly clean all the royal chambers, starting with yours," I said crisply. "May we come in?"

Flabbergasted, Théodred stepped aside to let the boys and me file past. This, of course, was the first time I'd been inside of his rooms. The chamber I'd just entered was his sitting room. It was poorly lit by the usual tapers and had only two narrow arrow-slit windows. Pieces of armor were scattered on a butcher-block table next to the wall, and a heap of clothes was piled untidily next to an armchair that had antlers. A gigantic brown fur rug—an awful toothy thing that looked like a mutant bear—was stretched out in the middle of the stone floor. Through the doorway to the left there was a four-poster bed draped with faded blue hangings that had seen better days.

"So, what exactly did you come to my chambers to do?" Théodred gave me a full-lipped smirk. He was a hottie, and we both knew it, but I had work to do.

"Éowyn's orders were to scrub the floors and walls, polish the furniture and dust the fixtures, beat the mattress and carpets, and collect all garments and bedclothes so we can deliver them to the washerwomen." I smiled blandly. "This may take a while. I do hope it won't be too much of an inconvenience."

To judge from his wry expression, Théodred was visualizing a pack of boys scrubbing his floor until Midsummer Day. "I would not wish to flout Éowyn's authority in household matters, but…. all garments, you said?"

"Those were her orders."

Wordlessly, Théodred stripped off his muslin shirt, unbuckled his belt, pushed his trousers and underdrawers down past his leather slippers, then tossed everything into the heap of dirty clothes. Stark naked, he sat down in the antlerbacked chair, picked up his helm, and started to polish it. Whistling a merry tune all the while.

My little group of warriors' sons had idolized their prince since they were babies, so of course they knew his ways very well. And now I did too. The worst of it was, I'm a redhead, so I'm sure I was blushing as red as a beet. I snatched up an armful of clothing and yelled, "Somebody gimme a bag!" Little Wiglaf, the fletcher's son, hastily held out a laundry sack and I slammed in Théodred's garments as hard as I could.

As they waited for instructions, my cleaning crew shuffled their feet and snickered. I grabbed a broom and ordered through clenched teeth, "Drag that mangy fur in the middle of the floor out to the north balcony, boys. The first thing I'm going to do is beat a rug. And after that—we'll see what else deserves to be smacked!"

By the time we came back to his rooms, Théodred had tired of his jest and gone out, leaving us to labor in peace. I decided to forgive him—it had been an educational experience, after all.

Besides, I have to admit that the prince was extremely… uh, well-built.

*************

The cleansing of King Théoden's chambers, of course, was the real life-or-death project—although no one but Éowyn and I knew it. As I'd anticipated, the King had no time to object when the crew and I showed up at his door just as he was walking out in riding clothes. Prudently, he decided to stay out a bit longer on his outpost tour than the three days he'd originally planned—five days in all.

Unfortunately for us all, it took **six** days to finish with his rooms. Scouring the King's chambers was the hardest work I'd ever done in my life. My kids and I cleaned anything and everything that might conceivably have had a smear of poison on it. We shoved around giant heavy cabinets and scrubbed the blackened walls behind them, swept cobwebs off the vaulted ceiling ten feet over our heads, scraped out grunge between the stone blocks in the walls with the boys' little hunting knives. By the time we were done I'd broken most of my fingernails, my neck had a crick in it that wouldn't quit, and my back ached in the morning as if I was an old lady.

None of the kids ever asked me why they had to be so much more meticulous with Théoden's four rooms than Théodred's two. He was the King—I guess that was reason enough. For the most part, I let them handle the three outer rooms on their own—they'd picked up the drill and could figure out the basics as well as I.

The fourth room, however, was the King's private study. I had to take responsibility for that myself. I'm pretty sure that King Théoden wouldn't have left us alone in his quarters so casually if he'd realized that Éowyn had handed over all the keys in her possession.

When I unlocked the door, I saw that the King's study was hung with tapestries of hunting scenes that were so dusty, I started to sneeze just looking at them. The room was filled with ancient gold-scrolled furniture— the largest piece was a massive oak desk cluttered with papers and scrollcases. Most of the state documents, I quickly discovered, were kept right there on his desk, not in the official meeting hall. Not that there were that many official state documents, anyway. Talk about a paperless society!

I'd chosen Haleth, Háma's boy, to help me with the King's study. He was the oldest of my "fellowship"—thirteen going on eighteen, a little taller than me, and as of that winter allowed to wear his first pair of men's breeches. His auburn hair was long and curly and his voice hadn't broken yet, but he wasn't at all girlish. This boy had known all his life that he wanted to grow up to be a fierce warrior, just like his father and grandfather. Haleth couldn't read or write, but he was a really sharp kid. When I first asked him why he thought we were doing all this scrubbing, he answered right off, "Because the King is sick and no one knows what ails him."

I hadn't told Haleth the full story in so many words, but I'm sure that he'd managed to read between the lines. In the evenings I'd often heard his father Háma reciting old sagas by Meduseld's main fireplace. Old Rohirric sagas are as full of murder, incest, treachery and gore as anybody else's sagas, so Haleth was probably just as prepared for all this intrigue as if he'd been watching _The Sopranos_.

With the utmost care, we examined and cleaned the walls, the tapestries, the chairs, the shelves, the oil lamps, and the desk—foot by foot, and then inch by inch. I slid the parchment scrolls out of the horn scrollcases and quickly scanned them. Some were written in Rohirric, the rest were written in a different Middle-earth script that was all curlicues. I found myself reading in yet another unlearned language "_cede the lands between the mountains and the river_." Knowing that I must have been 'taught' that language by magic was pretty creepy. Hastily, I reinserted the ancient scroll back into its case.

Haleth and I soon slipped into a polished investigative routine. We must have sounded like a crime novel's Great Detective and her loyal sidekick:

"What shall I do with the inkwell, Barbarella?"

"Drain it and get new ink. The sealing wax too."

"How about his quill pens?"

"Have Wiglaf's dad cut replacements for them. Toss those."

"What about his wine cup? Shall I wipe it clean, or do you want to taste the lees first?"

All the while, we kept sneaking looks at the one item that Éowyn **hadn't** given me the key to—the King's strongbox. At any rate, I assumed it was the King's strongbox—it was a big brass chest that somebody had attached to the floor with heavy iron chains.

Finally Haleth succumbed to temptation and sidled over to it, only to exclaim, "Barbarella, the seal on the chest—it's been tampered with!"

When I checked it out, I saw that he was right. The chest had been sealed with beeswax, but if you examined the seal very closely you could see that it had been gently peeled off. So yeah, we really needed to get a look at what was inside that chest. What better place than Théoden's moneybox for Wormy to hide his poison? Assuming he had the guts to try, that is…

The question was, did **I** have the guts to find out? On the one hand, I could easily imagine Théoden yelling, "Off with her head!" if he discovered that I'd so much as touched that chest. On the other hand, how was he going to find out? Haleth wasn't going to tell him, and Théoden's eyes weren't that good any more.

When it came right down to it, this was the most important job I'd ever been handed in my life. Was I going to give it 100%, or wasn't I? I glanced over at Haleth, but he didn't say a word. Maybe he assumed that a mere handmaiden couldn't figure out a lock.

Okay, I'd go for it.

Hunkering down in front of the chest, I studied the big iron lock for a good long time. Although it was large, it was pretty primitive when you got right down to it—almost as simple as the tin lock on a drugstore diary. Now, how had I unlocked my cousin Judy's diary in seventh grade?

It turned out that what they say about bobby pins is true—if you have enough time to tinker with them. The seal was the difficult part. I had to raise the lid of the chest a little at a time—very, very carefully—so the wax wouldn't break. Haleth nearly turned green when he saw that I'd actually succeeded, but he gulped and helped me to steady the heavy lid so I wouldn't drop it.

Poor kid—he'd started out as a sidekick and he'd wound up an accomplice.

The King's treasury consisted of a couple hundred gold pieces and maybe twice as many silver pieces. With increasing nervousness, I cautiously sifted through the coins, but didn't come up with anything remotely suspicious. Eventually I discovered an embroidered doeskin pouch that contained a pair of silver (or maybe mithril?) bracelets set with red square-cut gemstones, and an ivory miniature of a brown-haired woman with bright blue eyes. It was an obvious location for a poison trap, so I checked it out thoroughly—but no, still nothing.

Defeated, Haleth and I slowly lowered the lid. Once the King's strongbox had been returned to its original condition and locked, we felt much safer—but why hadn't we found anything? This was so frustrating! Maybe the rest of the kids had picked up something in the King's bedchamber.

Nope. Even after we went through the whole place from top to bottom, no "smoking gun" turned up anywhere. It was going to be horrible to report this to Éowyn—she'd been counting on me to come up with something. Damn! I'd been so sure!

After I'd more than exhausted our welcome in the King's chambers (and after the returned Théoden had yelled at us all several times), there was still one final task to complete—one forlorn hope left. I hadn't specifically mentioned the idea to Éowyn, but since wizards really existed in Middle-earth, it seemed very possible that the King had been bewitched. Of course, if Saruman had zapped him long-range with a palantir or something, we were screwed—but somehow I thought that Gríma Wormtongue was more likely to have gone for something up close and personal. Something like 'that old black magic.' Something like…voodoo.

When the crew and I had first entered Théoden's chambers, I'd told my kids to pick up and save any funny looking item for my personal inspection—anything that was peculiar or out-of-place or didn't look like it belonged to the King. So at the end of the job I had a bagful of trash to examine:

The dried carcass of a beetle with a gold carapace

An old corncob doll

A lock of white hair tied up with a red thread

Willow twigs braided into a brittle bracelet

An uncracked walnut crosshatched with blue paint

White feathers stuck in a lump of black wax

The whole collection looked more like a month with no trash pickup than the Witch Queen of New Orleans, but you never could tell. With Haleth trotting at my side, I toted these dubious bits of garbage down the hall and incinerated them in Éowyn's charcoal brazier.

"Take the ashes outside the city wall and bury them," I told him. "We've done what we could."

Haleth nodded. He was a child of Rohan, a medieval society that believed in magic. My instructions can't have surprised him very much.

"Is there nothing else that we can do, Barbarella? Nothing at all?"

"This is the best I can come up with." How do you tell a kid that the adults can't fix everything? That there's nothing more you can do to save the life of the King that everybody depends on?

And then I suddenly remembered—it's not like I was talking to a baby. Haleth was practically grown up, and he was the one who knew Rohan, not me. After a moment's consideration, I ventured, "Is there anything else that **you** can think of?"

Haleth's clear brown eyes widened in amazement. Either back home or in Rohan, teenagers aren't asked for their opinions very often. I was one myself not so very long ago, so I know how it feels. Once Haleth realized that I meant what I'd said, he leaned against the wall and wrestled wordlessly with the challenge of a mental, instead of a physical struggle.

I stood back quietly and watched as he chewed his knuckles and scowled. Burying the ashes could wait—if I gave him some space, my fledgling warrior might actually come up with something.

After a few moments of serious cogitation, he suggested, "Perhaps I could sing to him? In the ancient tales of the people of Eorl, there were spellsongs that had power against monsters or curses. I am no master harper, but if Théoden King hears me sing about the brave deeds of old, perhaps it will remind him of better times."

Sure, why shouldn't Haleth give it a try? I clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Okay, sounds good. Go for it!"

"Do you…do you believe that I have any chance of success at all?"

Looking him straight in the eye, I gave him my honest answer. "If you think that there might be a chance, it doesn't really matter what I believe. You still have to try."

After an instant's pause, Haleth nodded and agreed with the utmost seriousness, "Yes, I do."

In Rohan, they hold a ceremony when a boy reaches his thirteenth year to celebrate his entry into manhood. But to my mind, that was the moment when Haleth really became an adult. After he made that decision, no matter what other tasks he was given to perform in the course of the day, the son of Háma would be found in the evenings at the feet of Théoden, singing the old songs about Helm Hammerhand and about Thengel Long Rider, the father of the King.

*************

I finally located Éowyn in one of her favorite places: the upper landing of the great stone staircase of Meduseld. Other than the guard towers, that landing was the best place in the castle to stand if you wanted to be able to see far out into the distance, and it was one of those shimmery-pure winter afternoons when you can see forever. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the air tasted cleaner than a Rocky Mountain breeze.

Éowyn was dressed in her plain brown felt riding jumper that day and she wasn't wearing her combs, so her braids had come out again and her blonde hair was fluttering in the chilly breeze. Somehow she always managed to look like a fairy-tale princess. At that moment the princess she resembled was Rapunzel.

The Princess was staring longingly beyond the thatched rooftops of Edoras to the prairies and the snowcapped White Mountains. I knew just how she felt—with orcs marauding the countryside every day, a woman couldn't even leave the stockade unless she had a really good reason. The place was a trap. If we could only find a way to get out of there…

"Éowyn, I'm so, so sorry—it didn't work," I stammered, ducking my head in spite of myself. I wasn't crazy about acting like a forelock-pulling menial, but I was a part of Éowyn's household, not just her employee, and I'd begun to understand what household loyalty meant in Rohan. "We looked and looked and looked and we couldn't find anything in your uncle's chambers that seemed like it might be poison."

Éowyn turned from her wistful reverie and drew herself up straight. "Do not apologize! You have been faithful and true, more devoted to me than any man or woman of my own people. I thank you for what you have done."

"But I failed you!"

"You have given me hope, Barbarella, and there has been very little hope in these dark days within the halls of Meduseld. You have no reason to be ashamed. It is my duty to lead you, not the reverse."

That'swhat I mean about household loyalty. This was a Princess of Rohan. The whole countryside was filling up with Saruman's monstrous killers, her family and her people were falling into ruin, and she still took the time to comfort me. I put both hands over my face to hide my eyes and Éowyn pulled me into her arms to give me a hug. It was lucky for me that she did, too, because it meant that she couldn't see me cry. From the way she patted my back, though, I'm afraid that she figured it out anyway.

After a while I blinked hard and cleared my throat. As soon as I'd recovered my composure, Éowyn released my shoulders and gave me a brilliant smile. Once more the proud, confident daughter of kings, she assured me, "There is always hope! Do you know what I was wishing just now? That some hero would ride over those plains to come and rescue us! But we both know that there is no help to be found out there. You and I must simply find a way to rescue ourselves."

Éowyn had sure nailed it—it was stupid of me to even think of giving up. After all, it's not like anybody else was going to take on this job for us.

"You're right, Éowyn—there's got to be more that I can do. I'll get back to the cleaning project and try again. Something might turn up after all." I couldn't help but wonder, though, about what Éowyn intended to do next. She'd always wanted to take part in the action, but the men in her family never let her get involved. Usually I thought that was really unfair, but this time the 'action' was wizardry.

*************

After all that work on the King's chambers, Éomer's and Éowyn's living quarters were a snap. As you remember, I'd been working on Éowyn's rooms all along, so they were basically finished. Finally, and much to Wormtongue's surprise, we tackled the rooms of the King's Counsellor. I didn't honestly expect to find poison in Gríma's own room—he was far, far too cunning for that. But you never know—everybody slips up sometime. He just might have overlooked some tiny scrap of evidence. And anyway, it was my last hope.

Since Gríma had watched the whole royal family let us into their rooms without complaint, he didn't dare object to us entering his. Hey, the King's Counsellor was a part of the inner circle too—his quarters were right down the hall from Théodred's. Gríma hissed and nearly spat at me when I told him it was "your turn, sir," and his flat slate-colored eyes darted snakily from one member of my cleaning crew to the next as he weighed his options. If he stepped away for even a minute, who knows what we'd find? But if he stayed to watch us, he was practically admitting that he had something to hide.

I'd mousetrapped him neatly, and he knew it. This incident was probably the first time that he bothered to notice a mere handmaiden, but by the time we finished cleaning his room, I'm sure that he hated me.

In the end, Wormy grabbed up a couple of scrollcases and some writing implements and stomped out, mumbling about documents that he had to copy as soon as possible. As I brushed past him with malicious enthusiasm, I made a mental note of what those scrollcases looked like—perhaps Éowyn could arrange for him to be called away very suddenly and I could get a peek at them. Somehow I was sure that I'd be able to read them, no matter what language the scrolls were written in.

Gríma's chamber turned out to be the most cluttered place that I'd seen in all of Meduseld. Every flat surface was covered with papers or knickknacks or dusty scrolls. He even had books stacked in boxes under the bed. I began to think the guy might be obsessive-compulsive—it was as if he couldn't bear to let go of anything he'd ever put his hands on. Most people in Rohan aren't like that; collecting piles of unnecessary stuff is what we do in the U.S.

When I opened up his wardrobe box, I discovered to my surprise that Gríma didn't own very many clothes. All I found was a few 'melancholy Dane' black outfits that looked like they'd been turned and patched over and over again. Maybe they'd been made for him years before by his mother. What other woman of Rohan would be willing to sew for Gríma?

Once again, in spite of all our labors, the kids and I discovered nothing of value. Was my entire plan a total washout?

*************

It did seem horribly likely. For about a week I slunk pitifully around Meduseld, barely able to look Éowyn in the face. But then, slowly and mysteriously, Théoden's condition began to improve. His tired old eyes grew clear and sharp again and his white hair actually went back to a sandy brown. It was like magic—the King looked twenty years younger! But what was more important to his people, he'd also regained his old energy. Once again he was ready and eager to strike at any foe that dared to threaten Rohan. He even snarled at Gríma! And let me tell you, when he finally got on Wormtongue's case, all of Meduseld cheered. Neither Éowyn nor I ever figured out exactly what it was that I did that worked, but who cares? The King was on the mend and hope was returning.

As for me, I was beginning to reconcile myself to life in Edoras. Yes, of course I desperately missed my mom, my home, and my college studies. But I didn't spend as much time brooding as you might expect, because fortunately, I was almost never left alone. And a very good thing, too—Éowyn wasn't the only one who needed company in the dark hours of the night!

I can't say that I enjoyed being marooned in the Middle Ages. You just don't get over the nonexistence of automobiles, chocolate, flush toilets, TV…and paper. Yes, paper. It was quite a shock to realize that I had to memorize everything–I couldn't just jot down a quick note on a Post-It. And everyone in Edoras seemed to have a better memory than I did.

But at least I had friends, and really, it's the people around you that you notice the most. I wasn't palling around with the Princes, of course, but most of Éomer's éored knew who I was, and the mothers of my cleaning crew seemed to like me, even if they had no idea of what we'd really been up to. As Wiglaf's mom put it to me, "It will be good training for him later, when he takes a wife."

My kids would still do any chores that I gave them, and Haleth was teaching me the folk sagas of Rohan, as well as the snippets of information that he'd picked up about the rest of Middle-earth. In return, I was teaching him to read. Moreover, as soon as I was quite sure I could tell the difference between Rohirric and Westron, I thought I might start up a middle-school class in Westron as a Second Language. Even if I could never go home, at least I could use my degree for something. During the cleaning project I'd made an amazing discovery—I actually enjoyed working with pre-teeners! Finally, it had occurred to me that the White Mountains to the south must have some primo ski slopes. Definitely something to investigate—even in Rohan, I might still be able to ski!

For a little while, life was looking up.


	3. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Is this story more movie-verse or bookverse? Well, in some ways it is movie-verse being pushed toward bookverse. In other ways, not…

**Section 03 Something Wicked This Way Comes**

Stupid, stupid me—how could I have forgotten about the orcs? About two months after I arrived there was a major orc attack on one of the outlying villages. Three of the defending warriors were killed and two were severely wounded—and one of the wounded men was the King's son Théodred.

I can still remember every moment of that awful day. I was folding clothes in Princess Éowyn's sunroom when I happened to look out the window and saw Éomer and Théodred riding up to Meduseld. My immediate reaction was, "Oh good, Éowyn will be pleased—her brother's finally come back." Then I realized that both men were sitting astride the same horse, and that Théodred was practically falling out of the saddle. Éomer was behind Théodred and had to clutch him to hold him upright.

I charged downstairs as fast as I could and ran out the main door of Meduseld to find out what had happened. Haldred was minding the door just then, and he told me that the Prince had been cut up badly by orcs while on patrol in the Westfold. By the time I arrived, Théodred had already been taken away to the healers.

Within minutes, all of Edoras was in shock. Filled with rage and grief, Théoden and Éomer galloped out at once with their Riders to track down and kill as many orcs as they could find. At first it nearly destroyed me to think that Théodred's father was riding away from his child, who'd been hurt so badly. But he was the King, and the King's duty to his people is equal to his duty to his own kin. At any rate, that's what they believe in Rohan.

I have to admit, it sounds better than the excuses I heard from my own father.

Meanwhile, Princess Éowyn was left behind in Meduseld to nurse her cousin Théodred and to command the city and its warriors in the King's name. One woman, in other words, was expected to handle the work of three men. Isn't that just typical? To make matters even worse, as soon as Éowyn got her hands on the King's daybook, she discovered to her horror that Théoden and his favorite counsellor Wormtongue had allowed the battle-readiness of Rohan's greatest fortress to rot.

Naturally, when Éowyn said to me, "I believe that the Hornburg should be reprovisioned at once," I quickly replied, "Great idea, Princess!"

Food, fuel, and weapons for the Battle of Helm's Deep—yes!!!

Ensuring that Rohan's ancient Keep was prepared for war was yet another burden for Éowyn, so I volunteered to stay with Prince Théodred in her place. It was a hard choice for Éowyn—dreadfully hard. She wanted to take care of her cousin, but her first responsibility was to take care of her people. After many tears, she permitted me to take over the job, although she still dropped in to see the Prince whenever she could find the time. Somehow she'd gotten the notion that I'd fallen in love with Théodred while I was cleaning his rooms, and I let her think that, since it made her feel better about her decision. It's not like he really knew who was with him most of the time, anyway.

The Hall of Healing offered the best medicine that Edoras had to offer, which wasn't much. Its cabinets were filled with ointments and powders, tinctures and poultices—but no antibiotics, of course. I asked the woman in charge, old Guthrun, if she had any kingsfoil, but she'd never heard of it. She had herbs to stop bleeding, though, to keep wounds from going septic, and above all to numb Théodred's pain a little. God bless her for that.

The Hall was a depressing old place with drying clapboard walls and clean but cold floors. Pale slivers of sunlight seeped in through the tiny windows. Even the constantly-burning incense couldn't mask the pervasive odor of blood and bedpans.

Almost from the beginning, Théodred and I were alone. The other wounded soldiers had been whisked away by their wives to be nursed in their own homes alongside of their own hearths. I suppose I could have moved him to his own tower bedroom, but his stark warrior's chambers would be no more comfortable than the Hall, and we'd be much further from the drugs and the healers.

How serious were Théodred's injuries? Bad. Really bad. He'd suffered several wounds, but the worst was a severe abdominal injury—or to put it more bluntly, his belly had been sliced wide open by the filthy sword of an orc. When I finally nerved myself up to ask Guthrun, "What can you do to heal the Prince?" she stared at me with a sorrowful but incredulous expression, as if I was stupid to even hope.

There wasn't very much that I could do for Théodred except hold his hand while he drifted in and out of consciousness. His right hand, that is—the fingers on his poor shield hand had been hacked off up to the knuckle. While I sat there and listened to him moaning, I couldn't help but curse the years I'd squandered on semantics and transformational grammar when I could have been studying modern medicine. But eventually I came to believe that even modern medicine wouldn't have been able to help wounds like those. Théodred's injuries were mortal; when I looked into his eyes I could see the face of Death. He reminded me of Gramma, my last visit to her in the hospital. It was just a matter of time.

Right from the start I decided to stick with Théodred 24/7. My kids would run errands for me if I ever wanted anything, and there was a parson's bench next to the cabinets that was just right for naps. You could doze on it, but it was too hard to really let you sleep. That was what I needed. Guthrun was good with medieval herbs, but she was deaf as a post. I couldn't bear to think that Théodred might wake up and call for help—and that nobody would hear him.

*************

On the third night, about half a candle before morning, I noticed that Théodred was sweating and mumbling in his sleep. So I got up to find a wet cloth to wipe his face. As I was turning back to Théodred's cot, I caught sight of a black-robed figure hunched over in the arched doorway. It was Gríma Wormtongue, smirking and rubbing his hands together as usual. Checking out the handiwork of his master Saruman, no doubt!

The last thing on Middle-earth that I wanted to see was that man's evil pasty face. I looked around for backup, but didn't see anyone but Guthrun, who was snoring in a corner. And the sad lump under the covers that was Théodred. So essentially, I was on my own.

Gríma was a snake, but he was still a dangerous, scary guy. Nevertheless, I stalked over and glared up at him. I wasn't going to let him inside where he could mess with the medicine cabinets. "You can't come in here. The Hall of Healing is restricted to patients and nursing staff."

Gríma bared his teeth in a fake-humble smile and craned his neck back and forth to see who was around. It was obvious that it was just him and me. "I merely came to see how Prince Théodred fares," he said unctuously. "It is said in the Great Hall that he will not last the night. What a tragedy, for the King to lose his only son and heir."

I'd spent too many hours watching Théodred die to listen to this creep slime all over him. "Save the phony sympathy for the suckers who think you care. You haven't fooled me for one minute. I know what you really are—and I know who you're working for."

I was gratified to see an apprehensive shadow pass briefly over Gríma's face. "You say that you know what I truly am? Then by all means, enlighten me."

"You're a spy, Wormtongue. You're a servant of Saruman, the evil Wizard—and you're plotting to destroy Rohan." I suppose it was stupid to open my mouth and announce to Gríma that I knew what he was up to. But I couldn't help but compare myself to Éowyn. She was a warrior princess, bold and courageous. She'd never shrink from an enemy—she'd stand her ground and give him a piece of her mind. How could I do anything less?

Gríma grew very quiet and calculating, then half-shrugged, as if to say, 'Well, no witnesses here.' "If I am a spy, then that is something that we have in common, Barbarella Broom-maiden."

Now it was my turn to be apprehensive. "What are you talking about? I'm not a spy! You're insane!"

"No, I am not insane. Neither am I a credulous, hamfisted fool." Gríma's perpetual, maddening smirky smile returned full-force. "Two months ago, Captain Háma found you wandering in the north prairie of the Westfold, a 'pathetic innocent traveler who had lost her memory'. Háma, fool that he is, readily swallowed your claim that you knew nothing of Rohan."

His eyes darkened, and nictitating membranes seemed to flutter over them, as if he really was a snake. "And yet you speak perfect Rohirric. Now, how can that be? Nobody learns our language except for those who have business in the Mark. Clearly, you're a liar and a spy."

This had been my worst nightmare from the beginning—somebody who was able to pick holes in my story. And it was Wormtongue! As I struggled to put together an answer, Gríma continued to gloat. "So I asked myself, who might have sent you here? At first I thought you an agent of Gondor—but the Ruling Steward would never entrust a task of this gravity to a mere woman. And then I was informed of the Council of Elrond—a motley group of representatives of the so-called "free peoples" who were summoned to Imladris and harangued to 'join or die.' That explained it all. It was the Elves who sent you here, to ensure Rohan's continued allegiance to the failing Armies of the West."

I finally found my voice. "You're wrong! I wasn't in any Council, and I wasn't sent here by Lord Elrond."

In a spurious gesture of tenderness, Gríma reached out and brushed back a long, sweaty lock of hair that had fallen loose from my chignon sometime during the night. "You were not? Then perhaps you will tell me—how did you know that Elrond is a Lord?"

For a moment I was too shocked to reply, and then I realized that Wormtongue had just laid his hand on my breast. So I slapped that fishbelly face of his. As he rocked back on his heels, cupping his reddening cheek with his palm, it occurred to me that slime or no, Gríma was a man of Rohan. If he fell into a battle rage, I'd have terrible, terrible trouble on my hands.

But I got lucky. I guess Gríma had lived too long in Meduseld, where according to the law of Rohan, the King and all his household were sacrosanct. Instead he circled me like a vulture and spat out his spite in words.

"I never dreamed that a contemptible little she-cat like you would become my bane! When you first stumbled into this castle you seemed only a foolish mewling virgin, but you wasted no time in placing Princess Éowyn under your thumb. You've enchanted her! She's become arrogant, reckless, a threat to all of my plans. You have undermined my influence with Théoden King, and assault my rightful authority in Meduseld. You even dare to insult Saruman, the great White Wizard!"

Gríma's spurt of invective took my breath away, but truth to tell, listening to his tantrum made me feel kind of proud. I'd spent the last couple of months wondering if I'd ever be anything more than Éowyn's maidservant.

"Saruman's not a great Wizard anymore—he's nothing more than a lackey of a power much eviler than he is. Like you," I taunted daringly. "And if you think he'll ever share any of his power with you, you really **are** insane!"

I knew that Gríma would rip at me for that, and I was right. He glared at me and retorted, "And what of you, Barbarella? You have chosen to place your trust in the promises of the Elves, but in the end, they'll sail west to the Undying Lands and abandon you to the Doom of Men."

Then Gríma laughed, a short, ugly bark. "Or perhaps your ambitions were more… earthy? Did you hope to cozen Prince Théodred into bedding you and making you Queen of Rohan? Alas, the wretched creature is utterly incapable of it now."

This time I threw a pitcher at him. It missed, unfortunately, and struck the clapboard wall with a sharp 'clank!' Gríma ducked, hissed out a traditional villain line, "You'll regret this," and stormed out the door.

Once I was sure he was gone, I woozily picked up the pitcher and set it back on the medicine cabinet. It was pewter, so it hadn't broken.

That's the thing about Rohan—nothing shatters there. Except your heart.

*************

For a while I simply stood there gasping, drained of all energy. Screaming-fit confrontations had never been my strong suit, and besides, I was getting to be really scared of Gríma Wormtongue. I was no shieldmaiden of Rohan—a couple of self-defense YMCA classes were the extent of my personal combat training. Physically, I was no match for him.

Once my ears stopped ringing, I heard someone calling my name.

"Barbarella…Barbarella?"

Although faint and quavery, the voice was fiercely demanding.

"Barbarella!"

It was Théodred!

Spinning around, I raced madly over to my patient's bedside. Prince Théodred had woken, and he was staring up at me with alert, unclouded blue eyes. It looked like his delirium had lifted for at least a little while. I grabbed a cup of boiled water and dropped to my knees on the cobblestone floor next to his cot, then pressed the cup to his lips, hoping to get some fluid into him. But he pushed the cup aside.

"No…no time," Théodred panted. He was very weak, but grimly determined nonetheless. "Barbarella, is it…is it true?"

I should have just said 'yes' and made him sip the water, but he must have seen the confusion in my eyes. Grabbing the chain of my necklace with his shaking right hand, Théodred yanked my head down close to his own bloodless face, then winced and bit his lips as he gathered the will to speak.

"The orcs are too many…we cannot kill them all," he whispered painfully. "My people lose faith…I have failed them."

"No, no, don't say that!" I was trying not to panic, but he was getting more agitated by the second. I had finally accepted that Théodred was going to die, but not then. Not while he sounded so despairing. "You fought bravely!"

"But we cannot defeat Saruman…his power grows ever stronger. Tell me, Barbarella—is there still hope left for Rohan? I thought that no one would come to help us, but you have come. Is it true…that you possess the magic of the Elves?"

For maybe a second I didn't understand what he meant—then I realized that he must have heard Gríma and me yelling at each other about Elves and enchantments.

Now, maybe you could have denied hope to a dying man in his most desperate hour—but I sure couldn't. Instead I gently pried his quivering fingers away from my necklace—the stupid Evenstar that I'd never figured out, but which was the only possible reason why I was here in Middle-earth.

And I told him, more or less truthfully, "Yes, I bear the magic of the Elves. And I promise you, whatever powers I possess I will use to save your people."

"Our people," he said intensely. "You must say 'our people'—you are part of the King's household now. And you are a brave woman. I would have been honored to make you my Queen."

As Théodred's right hand dropped limply to his side, the lines of pain on his face smoothed a little, and he grinned up at me like a mischievous boy. "And I would have enjoyed bedding you."

I was so choked up by tears that I couldn't speak, so I bent down and pressed my lips to his clammy forehead in a hesitant kiss. I heard a little gasp, and when I raised my head to look at Théodred's face I realized that he'd stopped breathing.

I screamed so loud that even Guthrun heard me. By the time she tottered over to me, I was blubbering on Théodred's shirt. I'd known that this was inevitable, and that he was out of his pain now, but it all seemed so horribly, horribly wrong. What kind of awful place was this, full of orcs and monsters and evil wizards, and where good people had nobody to help them?

Eventually I felt a hand touch my shoulder, and I was so exhausted that I didn't even leap up and scream. It was Éowyn. It must have been Haleth who brought her to the Hall of Healing, since he was standing right next to her. She looked teary-eyed but controlled—a lot more composed than I was, or than Haleth was either for that matter. The poor kid couldn't turn his eyes away from the body that was lying on the cot in front of him.

I couldn't help it—I started to cry again. "Théodred's dead."

"I know. Come, you must sleep now," Éowyn said firmly. Before I could protest, she and Haleth hauled me away and laid me down to sleep in Éowyn's bower. That seemed horribly wrong, too. A princess isn't supposed to take care of a handmaiden! But I was too wrung out to protest.

************

I slept for at least twelve hours. When I finally woke up, it was late afternoon. Throwing on a smock, I slapped some water on my face, grabbed an apple off the sideboard, then ran downstairs to learn what had happened while I was out of the picture.

It looked like the Great Hall was being readied for…something. All of the banners of Rohan had been mounted into staff holders, and rows and rows of candles in little clay bowls were lined up on tables on either side of the Hall. Half a dozen boys—most of them my kids!—were scurrying back and forth with baskets or boxes or armfuls of cloth. I snagged Wiglaf, who was dragging a stave at least twice as tall as he was, and asked him what was going on.

His puppy-brown eyes filled with tears. Prince Théodred was to be buried tonight, he told me. Apparently Théoden King and Marshall Éomer had finally—finally!—returned home, and the King had commanded that his son's Honors be held immediately. That sounded awfully fast to me, but of course it wasn't my call. So I hurried off to find Éowyn. Surely there'd be something she'd need me to do.

I found Éowyn in her chambers. Her wardrobe boxes were open and her clothes were scattered all around. She'd decided to wear her black wool gown for the funeral, but to honor Théodred, she also wanted to put on a silver net overtunic that had been passed down from her mother, Théodred's aunt. The netting was pretty complicated, so the princess needed another pair of hands to help her put it on. Once again it was time for me to play handmaiden. I would have no such problems with my blue velvet dress, of course—it had a zipper.

*************

Funerals everywhere are pretty much alike. A solemn crowd, warriors and commoners both, had assembled quickly in the Great Hall. For once it was brightly illuminated, since someone had lit all the little candles on the tables. Théodred's body had been placed on a wooden dais in the center of the Hall. He had been wrapped in gold-brocaded cloth and placed upon the banner of Rohan.

I'd never attended a state funeral in my life, let alone in Rohan, so I was a little afraid that it would be unrelentingly grim and formal. Most of all I was afraid that King Théoden would be grim, formal…and unfeeling. Too many busy men never seem to have enough time, or love, or attention to spare for their own children. I hadn't seen the King and his son together very often, so I didn't know if the King was that sort of father, and it really wasn't something I wanted to find out at his son's funeral.

As it turned out, there was no reason for me to worry. When Théoden King first stepped forward to speak, it was very clear that his grief was real and deep. In front of all his people, he was making a heroic effort to be stern and resolute, but if you were looking closely—and I was—you could see that his eyes were bright with tears and that his lips trembled slightly when he spoke.

The worst of days brought forth the best of men, Théoden told us simply. No King could have had a better heir than Prince Théodred; no father could have had a better son. Prince Théodred's life had been brief, but it had been sacrificed willingly for the love of Rohan. The King didn't say very much else, but really, what more could you say?

I wish that my own father had been like him.

Next, Prince Éomer stepped up in front of the crowd of eorlingas. His leather armor had been buffed until it shone and his face had been scrubbed clean and pink. He too had a few words to say—a very few words, because poor Éomer wasn't much of a public speaker. Théodred had been a great leader and one of the finest warriors that Rohan had ever known, he said, in a raspy voice that was more sedate than I'd ever heard it. All of the Riders of Rohan would miss Théodred very much, especially Éomer himself. Then Éomer hastily stepped back and let Captain Háma take his place.

Háma is the Doorwarden of Meduseld. On that day he was wearing the full armor of his office: scale mail, gorget, greaves and all, with his helmet in his hands. He looked very imposing.

Now Háma is a born storyteller. He saw at once that we were all just about ready to break out bawling, so he started by speaking of how openhanded the Prince had been. Then he told the story of how Théodred had volunteered to take several of the younger boys on a camping trip last summer. It sounded like they'd all had a lot of fun, especially Théodred himself. I was sniffling by the time Háma finished with the funny story about the eggs. I wasn't the only one who needed a handkerchief, either—not that anybody had one.

Finally, Haleth stood at the head of Théodred's dais and sang a somber, minor key song in honor of a Prince who had died young. I don't remember most of the lyrics but the melody sounded very Welsh. Haleth has a wonderful voice; I'd often stopped to listen in the evenings when he sang to the King. He was so handsome in his new grownup tunic and pants, but what an awful occasion this was to demonstrate his skill to his people!

After the last notes finished echoing from the walls of the Golden Hall, a quartet from Théodred's éored stepped up on either side of the dais. The banner of Rohan, on which Théodred's body was lying, had been attached to two long staves. Together, the four warriors picked up the staves to raise the banner shoulder-high like a stretcher and marched toward the main doorway of Meduseld. Everyone else picked up a lighted candle and followed, so I did too, sliding into line right behind Éowyn.

When the doors were flung open I saw a mob of people crowded around the entrance. It looked like the entire population of Edoras was waiting for us. Most everybody was acting pretty stoic, although I did hear loud sobs from some of the kids and old women. As the eorlingas stepped forward with Théodred's body the crowd opened up to let us pass, then followed us closely.

Our procession moved slowly along the now nearly-empty streets of Edoras and eventually passed through the stockade gates. By this time it was growing dark, the snow-covered tops of the White Mountains were glowing pinky-purple, and the air was getting chilly. As we walked along, the dry grass under my leather slippers crackled with frost. Éowyn had told me that spring would surely arrive soon, but I saw no signs of any such thing. It was lucky that I'd brought along a woolen shawl to wrap around my shoulders.

At last we arrived at a rounded hill dotted with moonpale winter flowers. I saw a square stone doorway in one side of the hill that had been opened to reveal a pitch-black tomb. This was the burial mound of the family of the Kings of Rohan. They had all been buried there for generations. Now it was Théodred's turn.

I never did learn the name of those white flowers on the burial mound. Their petals were delicate and they smelled like French lilacs, but to me they were even creepier than calla lilies. It was the dead of winter, and they still bloomed; the King's only son was dead and they still bloomed. If Middle-earth were to be overrun by the forces of Sauron and the world of men were to fail, I'm sure they'd bloom then too.

The four eorlingas carefully slid Prince Théodred's body into the opening, then gazed over questioningly at the King. In the silence that followed I thought I heard a voice demand, "What of the last gift?"

Théoden King scowled briefly and shook his head, but more people started to murmur the same thing. Finally Théoden met the eyes of his son's men straight-on and proclaimed, "As you wish, so be it, eorlingas! You may come forward now and give Honor to your Prince."

The grieving warriors did something then that surprised me. One by one, as each man approached the mouth of the tomb, he tossed in a pebble.

"What are they doing?" I whispered to Éowyn.

"It is an ancient custom in which the people of Rohan share honor with the dead," Éowyn whispered back to me. "I did not think my uncle would permit it, since these are dangerous days and the Last Honor can inspire great recklessness. Each stone is a pledge to perform a deed of bravery in the name of Théodred."

Over the next few minutes, Éomer, Háma, Gamling, and a lot of other warriors that I knew from the Hall stepped up to repeat the ritual. Even Haleth. But not Gríma! At first, I assumed that this was a custom only for men, but then Éowyn went forward and dropped in a stone. I could see her lips moving, but I wasn't able to make out what she said.

One more time, for good or for ill, I found myself following Éowyn's example. I bent down, scooped up a piece of shiny quartz, and moved forward to join her. When I peered into the opening of the tomb, all that I could see of Théodred was his lower legs. They were protected by his heavy riding boots, so my pebble couldn't hurt him.

From now on, this was the closest I would ever get to Théodred. Closing my eyes, I held out my palm and let the pebble fall. As it rolled down into the tomb, I said very softly in English, "All right, Théodred. I'll do what I promised."

*****************


	4. Is This a Dagger Which I See Before Me?

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

My first review! Thanks, Arrow-of-Mirkwood!

**Section 04 Is This a Dagger Which I See Before Me?**

That night I couldn't sleep at all. Instead I swaddled up in a shawl and a veil and headed out to the chilly north balcony to gaze at the winter stars. Even the stars were strange. I could recognize the Big Dipper for sure, but some of the other constellations were pretty peculiar. But it didn't really matter what the stars looked like, because they were the stars I would have to live with for the rest of my life. It was time to face facts. I was never going to get back home.

I was a foreigner in a place that was leery of strangers. I was stuck in the middle of a country at war. And worst of all, I had made a sacred oath that I couldn't carry out. How could I possibly keep the promise that I'd made—twice—to Théodred? How could somebody like me do anything to help Rohan? In fact, how could I even manage to save my own skin?

I had a lump in my throat that wouldn't go away. Knowledge is Power—isn't that what they always say? In that case, I was even more responsible for the future of Rohan than King Théoden himself, since I had foreknowledge of the future, and he didn't. The Battle of Helm's Deep, Saruman and his ten thousand orcs, the One Ring—I'd known about all them before I ever set foot on Middle-earth.

What I didn't know is how many of us would survive the battle we'd be facing in only a few days.

Now maybe you're thinking, "But why on Earth were you worrying, Barbarella? Surely you realized that the Good Guys were going to win and that it would all turn out okay in the end."

Yeah, right. Don't forget—unlike you, I wasn't **on** Earth! I had no guarantee that we would win the Battle of Helm's Deep, and I certainly had no idea about what would happen to any of us. What I **could** foresee was that a lot of people were going to die. People that I knew. Maybe even me. If you call that 'turning out okay' then I'll bet you think that _Saving Private Ryan _had a happy ending.

Knowing what was going to happen didn't tell me how to prevent it. That was a hard, nasty thing for me to accept—in fact, I would have given anything not to have to accept it. Staring up at the cold winter stars, I desperately tried to dream up a plan to stop what was going to happen. But every time I thought up the glimmer of an idea, the unsympathetic stars snickered back at me, "Nope, that won't work either."

Was there anything I could possibly do to defeat Saruman's magic? No way! Somehow I'd interfered with his schemes once, but I didn't have the vaguest idea how I'd managed it. It wasn't something I'd be able to repeat.

Did I have any knowledge that could be used to fight Saruman's army of orcs? Are you kidding? What did I know about armies? Or about any other kind of physical combat, for that matter.

Could I at least convince Théoden King to toss Gríma Wormtongue into the nearest dungeon, like he deserved? Unlikely. Éowyn and Éomer, the daughter and son of the King's own sister, had loathed the King's slimy counsellor for years, and he'd flourished in spite of them. Gríma was appallingly cunning; I had no proof of his treachery, and he'd make sure that I never got any.

Eventually the morning star, which of course is also the evening star, rose up in the eastern sky. Dawn was coming up, time was running out, and I still had no notion of what I should do next. Frustrated and angry, I screamed up at that other Evenstar, "Why am I here? Why was I brought to Rohan if I can't do anything to help? Give me some kind of a clue, okay?"

But there was no answer. No sign, no portent, no nothing. Finally I gave up and went back inside to start the new day's chores.

***********

All the next day, the sun never once broke through the clouds. It drizzled and drizzled and drizzled, never giving us a moment's letup or light. When I went down to the Golden Hall, I discovered that Éomer had rounded up a troop of his eorlingas at the crack of dawn and ridden out to hunt orc. I wasn't really surprised. At this point killing a few more orcs wouldn't help Rohan very much, but being the kind of men they were, they had to keep their promises or die trying.

Théoden King tarried all that morning at the burial mound of Rohan. In the afternoon he too rode out with his eorlingas to review the military situation in the Westfold. Théodred and Éomer had been returning from some Westfold villages when they were ambushed. Somebody was stirring up the Dunlendings around the Isen River, Éomer said. It was easy to guess who!

Éowyn closed herself off all day in the King's chamber to pore over military supply records. As the Princess told me, she had to be sure we were ready for war. And if she spent some of the time crying, nobody knew about it but her. Each member of the royal family of Rohan was strong, indomitable and noble, but they all needed to grieve in their own way.

And what about me? I mulled it over for awhile and finally decided that I should be the one to clean out Théodred's chambers and sort through his stuff. Somebody always has to take on that painful duty after a death, and who better than the Broom-maiden? So I spent the rest of the day folding and bagging the Prince's clothes and blankets, brushing his boots, and stashing his gold clasps, buttons, and buckles in a little chest for Éowyn, so Gríma-down-the-hall wouldn't be able to get his mitts on them.

I must admit that I did cry sometimes when I found myself packing a shirt that I remembered Théodred wearing, but there was nobody around to see me either. I hadn't known the Prince very well, or for very long, but he was one of the finest, bravest young men in all of Rohan—everybody in Edoras knew that. And he'd died in my arms as he was pleading for my help. How could you ever, ever forget something like that? No one would ever be able to replace him, that was for sure.

By the time I finished doing the little that I could, it was midafternoon. I left Théodred's arms and armor on the work table for Éomer to go through, since a Rider's battlegear needs special handling. But other than that, my self-appointed task was done. I was feeling exhausted, giddy and stressed out all at once, but Éowyn might return to her chambers at any time and want to talk about Théodred, and I didn't think I was ready for that. So I curled up on the stripped bolster on Théodred's bed, wrapped myself in my shawl, and drifted off into unquiet slumber.

*************

Stiff and still, I stood at attention all alone before the main door of Meduseld. It was the black-and-white world of midnight, lit only by the pallid moon and the silver runes that covered the walls of the Great Hall. For a minute I didn't know what I was doing, and then I realized that I was the King's Doorwarden. It was my duty and my honor to protect Théoden King from whatsoever enemy might approach these doors.

I glanced down at my uniform and saw a wide silver neck gorget, grey scalemail that hung past my knees, stiff chainlink trousers, and massive dark riding boots. I was dressed in a full set of armor, just like Captain Háma! Surprisingly, all of this heavy gear was light as a feather and easy to wear—except for the mail shirt, which was a little tight across the chest. I pulled off my broad metal helmet and set it down on the stone pavement so that I could take a better look around.

The streets of Edoras, cold and colorless in the moonlight, were completely deserted. Everyone but me was sleeping peacefully in bed; they all trusted me to protect them. I pulled my shoulders back, clanking a little as I did so, and felt proud to be a shieldmaiden. No foe of Rohan would pass by me!

But as I stood at attention, guarding the castle, there was a soft, slithery sound in the hall behind me. Something strange was going on in Meduseld itself. I grew apprehensive; I couldn't possibly leave my post, but I had to find out what was going on. The noise grew louder and louder, and finally I heard a prolonged, sibilant hiss.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, I turned around to behold a sinister dark-clad figure with the dreadful appearance of a specter or a Ringwraith. But no, it was Gríma Wormtongue! He was completely covered by his inky-black robes, so it almost seemed that his bone-pale visage was floating in midair.

"What are you doing here, Wormtongue?" I demanded harshly. "What is all this?"

I tried to run forward and grab him, but discovered to my horror that my arms and legs wouldn't work. Frozen in my tracks, I could only watch as Gríma's face twisted in a ghastly grimace and a forked tongue slipped out from between his narrow lips. A buzzing rattle reverberated across the paving stones.

"This is what you fear the most, Barbarella," Gríma hissed. "This is War!" His arm swooped slowly toward me as if he were swimming through deep water. When he clenched his hand I saw that his nails were black and pointed, like fangs.

Suddenly my limbs no longer felt paralyzed. My first instinct was to turn and run, but no! I was powerful, I was invincible, I was a shieldmaiden of Rohan, and there was a sword in my hand that shone like a lightsaber in the dark. Gathering up my strength, I raised my blade in front of my face in a brief prayer for courage. Then, before Gríma could react, I lunged forward and thrust my sword deep into his chest.

From my wrist to my shoulder there was an electrical shock of contact as the blade slid through flesh to strike solid bone. Gríma screamed shrilly. Blood gushed out of his thin mouth and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. Sticky black blood runneled down my sword. Sickened, I pulled it out of his body and he toppled over soundlessly.

Numb and uncomprehending, I stared down at the corpse of Gríma. Blood was pouring out in rivulets from his tattered robes onto the grey paving stone, but even as I watched, the tarry liquid boiled up and disappeared in a mist. Finally, the body disintegrated into powdery ash and blew away.

Once again I stood alone at the doors of the great Hall, a shieldmaiden of the Mark guarding Meduseld.

*************

And then I woke up.

I'd had nightmares before when I woke up confused or totally freaked out. In fact, I'd had a few of them recently in Meduseld. But nothing like this particular, horrible dream! Even after I recognized where I really was and what was actually going on, I was still terrified. Whether my dream had been a sign and a portent, or just images bubbling up from my subconscious, I couldn't get away from the fact that it made sense. The Snake-Gríma in my dream had been a horror-show demon, but he'd been no more dangerous than the real Gríma in the waking world.

Sick and lightheaded, I slid off the straw bolster onto the cold granite floor and grabbed up my leather slippers. As I put them on, I noticed that the light through the arrowslits was fading fast. I'd been asleep longer than I'd realized—it had to be after sunset. I ought to light some candles right away.

Digging through my belt pouch, I finally found my vesper box, pulled it out, and started clicking the lid.

The vesper box was kind of a neat Middle-earth gadget that worked like a Zippo lighter. Under its copper lid there were strips of gritty sandpaper and some oily rags. You were supposed to keep clicking the lid open and shut and eventually the oily rags would flare up. Then you could use them to light your candle, always assuming that you hadn't burnt off your eyebrows first.

After awhile I heard a "phht" and smelled an odor of brimstone as the rags suddenly ignited. I hastily pulled out the flaming rags and lit three candles that were standing in pewter holders on Théodred's bench. I'd worked most of the day in this cold, dark room, and not much of what was still left out was Théodred's. Two neatly-packed boxes and three large bags held all of his clothes and most of his things. Even a Crown Prince didn't collect many physical possessions in Rohan—the treasures of the ruling house were the great Mearas horses and the loyalty of the eorlingas.

Meanwhile, I couldn't stop thinking about Gríma, and asking myself what I ought to do next.

I had no idea whether the dream I'd just had was a portent, but I knew for a fact that Gríma was a traitor and a spy. I hadn't gotten this only from a movie trailer, either—I knew it of my own knowledge.

A sneak and a snake like Gríma had the advantage in an honorable society like Rohan. The straightforward, open eorlingas were forbidden by law even to touch this false counsellor of the King. He was only one man, but he was in just the right position to stab his country in the back. It was horrible to imagine all the evil he could do.

Gríma could poison Théoden King—again!

He could stir up dissension amongst the eorlingas. Gríma had already started a whispering campaign against "Éomer the Hothead" to the skeptical Westfolders. Many of them were afraid that the Prince would be like his late father, the reckless Marshall Eomund of the Eastfold.

And worst of all, it would be easy for Gríma to commit outright treason. He could open the city gates one dark night and deliver us to the orcs in a single stroke.

If somebody didn't stop him, he'd get a lot of people killed. Very probably some of my kids. Possibly my Princess. Maybe even me.

I didn't know what could be done about Saruman, but Gríma had to go.

Almost without thinking about it, I picked up Théodred's unsheathed boot dagger. Many of the Prince's weapons were still in his room. Not his greatsword, of course—that had been hung next to the King's sword in the Great Hall. But his knives still lay in a row on his workbench, glittering up at me in the candlelight. The Rohirrim didn't own many things made of steel, but what they had was of good quality. This particular dagger was an 18" steel stiletto with a point sharper than a timberline icicle. I'd heard Théodred's eorlingas say that he called it 'Toothpick' and I knew he'd killed orcs with it. It would make a good weapon even for an amateur.

Squeezing the blade between my palms, I stood stock still, horrified by the implications of what I was thinking. "Even for an amateur?"

Shuddering, I dropped the wicked thing back onto the table and jumped back. No! What on Earth was I thinking of?

I'd tried and tried, but I couldn't figure out another way.

And I wasn't **on** Earth. Heart hammering loud in my chest, I stared wildly all around me. Théodred's room was filled with the undeniable evidence of the land I was now living in: the roebuck-antler chair, the warg-skin rug, and the armor-stand draped with the exoskeleton of Rohirric battle armor. Théodred's armor was made up of so many esoteric pieces: breastplate, helmet, vambraces, greaves, and a ton of other metal bits that I wouldn't even have recognized three months earlier—or wanted to. This wasn't my world; it was Middle-earth, a medieval society where you had to fight with spears and swords just to survive.

But acknowledging where I was didn't make me yearn to accept the life style. I was a civilian born and bred; I'd never even picked up a gun back home. That's what policemen and soldiers were for. People like me didn't take the law into their own hands.

Only that wasn't quite true. Sometimes they did have to.

Like every other American with a scrap of imagination, I had often asked myself, "What if I'd been on Flight 93?" What would I have done when I found out my plane was being hijacked? Would I have been as strong and as brave as they were? They'd all been civilians too.

This situation was different, but the life-or-death obligation was the same. There was nobody else around who could possibly do this, so it was up to me. In my mind's eye, I'd already envisioned myself as a passenger on that plane a hundred times before. And somehow that made it much easier to say, "Okay, I'll do it."

After I'd said the words, and admitted to myself that I was going to try to…kill…Gríma, I was swamped by the most incredible wave of icy fear. I was sure that Gríma would strike back, and I knew that he was much, much more of a warrior than I could ever hope to be. And nobody would come to help me, because this would be murder. I was going to commit a murder.

No, I couldn't say that, not even to myself. I couldn't talk myself into failing before I even started. To kill an enemy to protect the people was not an act of murder—it was an act of war. I'd promised Théodred a deed of bravery, and here it was.

Me, brave?

*************

Once I made up my mind that I was actually going to do it, I didn't just rush out in a berserk fury to kill Gríma. I'm not a complete idiot, after all. If this was going to work I needed time to figure out the operation. But not so much time that I'd talk myself into chickening out.

The plan was simple but difficult. What I had going for me was surprise, and that was **all** that I had going for me; I certainly didn't have skill or strength. I was going to march down the room to Gríma's chamber, knock on his door, and then, when he opened it, pull out the dagger and do the deed. Attack him, that is. Stab him. Kill him.

Fortunately, I was well acquainted with my chosen battleground. Gríma's room was right down the hall from Théodred's chambers, and nobody else was left in the whole north tower. To judge by the quantities of candle stubs I'd found scattered around in his room, Gríma stayed up very late at night. So I'd wait until after midnight, when everybody else was asleep in bed. That way it wasn't very likely that there would be a witness.

I wasn't kidding myself—what I intended to do was totally against the law of Rohan. I would be judged very harshly indeed if I was caught. But hopefully, I wouldn't be.

When it was all over I intended to follow the example of my Uncle Jimmy, who got drafted right after college and sent to Viet Nam. After he came back from his tour of duty he never said a word to anybody about what he'd seen, what he'd heard, or what he'd done incountry. Not a single word. And neither would I.

While I waited for the moon to rise, I forced myself to choke down the slab of bread that Théodred had left on his workbench. I couldn't risk being lightheaded when I most needed to be quick and sharp. I had no doubt that Théodred would have wanted me to do this, or I would have felt bad about eating the food that he'd left behind. Seeing Théodred's bread still edible and practically fresh, while Théodred himself was buried and gone, was just one more sorrow in a day crammed full of them.

As soon as I'd finished, I wrapped up Théodred's dagger in a napkin, so that it couldn't be seen until I was ready to use it. Then I spent a little while practicing pulling it out of its linen "sheath". Okay, I was ready.

Finally the new moon shone through the arrowslits and I knew that it was time. I took a deep breath and said out loud, "Let's roll." I had the napkin-wrapped dagger in my right hand and a candleholder in my left, so I nudged open Théodred's door with my foot. Then I started down the corridor at a slow, cautious pace.

I don't remember what I was thinking; I don't remember what I was feeling. I was doing my best not to panic; it was just step after step after step. There were ninety-two steps in all to Gríma's chamber; that's something I do remember.

Since the four towers of Meduseld had been built for siege defense by the masons of Rohan, walls of stone surrounded me on all sides. The door to the north balcony was about halfway down the hall and there was some light from that, but mostly I had to depend on my one little candle. Torches were mounted in sconces along the wall, but they hadn't been lit. A lot of everyday chores weren't completed that day.

When I finally made my way to Gríma's chamber there was flickering yellow light underneath his door. He was probably still awake.

I felt as if I was a very small person who was trying to climb up the tallest mountain in the world. For the first time in a long while, I actually felt like I was trapped in the middle of some kind of crazy fantasy. Only I wasn't. This was real. This was really going to happen. It was going to happen right now. I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone completely dry.

I was setting down my candleholder so I could knock on Gríma's door when a silky-cruel voice right behind me said, "What are you doing here, Barbarella?"

Scared nearly out of my mind, I spun around and there was Gríma Wormtongue. He must have come up the staircase behind me, but since he was wearing soft slippers I hadn't heard his footsteps. Gríma was sneering down at me with glittering eyes and an evil smirk on his lips.

I was so startled that my plan flew right out of my head. My brain seemed to freeze and all I could say was, "I…I…I…"

Gríma's pasty-white face contorted and changed into a terrifying snarl. This was the dangerous, wicked Wormtongue that he never allowed the court of Meduseld to see. "But then again, what does it matter?"

Before I could react, Gríma's hand whipped up and he slammed me against the wooden door so hard that I barely managed to keep hold of the napkin with the dagger. Covering my mouth with one hand, he grabbed a hank of my hair with his other hand and he slammed my head against the door. "This is what you get for meddling," he hissed.

My head was swimming and I was gasping desperately for breath. I struggled and tried to claw at him, but his grip was like iron. Gríma spun me around and shoved me forward, his hand still clamped over my mouth and nose. His long, broken nails were gouging my cheek, but I barely noticed them. It was unbelievable how strong this weedy little man was. I tried to twist around and stab him, but I couldn't squirm free.

As he roughly pulled me down the corridor, my mind was finally starting to work. "He's going to throw me off the balcony! It's three floors down—I'll be killed!" I told myself, panic-stricken. Then the analytical mystery-fan in me added, "But he'll probably hit me over the head first—just to be sure."

It was so dark that I couldn't see my own feet, and I couldn't raise my hands to steady myself, so I kept tripping over my long skirt. Once I fell down, skinning my knees badly, but Gríma jerked me back up by the hair. It felt like he'd just ripped out half my scalp, but all I could think of was, "Don't drop the dagger! It's your only chance."

In quick, jumpy steps he dragged me to the north balcony. The whole horrible experience seemed to take forever, but it really must have been only a few minutes. I was so scared that I nearly threw up—I knew that he was going to kill me and I hadn't gotten a single opportunity to defend myself.

When we reached the big metal double doors to the balcony, I could finally see what was going on, because moonlight was coming in from the balcony window. This was my chance—my only chance. Those doors took two hands to open, so Gríma would probably….

Yes! Letting go of my mouth, he pinned me to the wall with his left hand while he reached up to a copper torch sconce with his right hand.

In that moment, I stamped down as hard as I could on his instep.

Screaming with pain, he backhanded me so hard that I was sent flying. I tumbled headlong onto the stone floor, and the napkin and dagger went skittering from my grasp down the corridor.

My wind had been knocked out of me and I'd hit every crazy bone in my body, but sheer terror pushed the pain right out of my head. I threw myself in the direction of my dagger, but just as I reached the mass of white cloth, Gríma hauled me up by my left elbow, nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process.

But the hand that was holding the dagger was free.

Twisting around to look at him, I stabbed upward with every ounce of my strength. The dagger hit his body somewhere in his upper thigh, and all at once my hand and my arm were drenched in spurting blood. The now-slippery dagger slid right out of my grasp as Gríma's hands clamped forcefully around my neck.

I tried to wrench away, but I couldn't dislodge his grasp. I couldn't catch my breath. I could hardly see Gríma's vicious face and bared-teeth grimace through the white stars and purple spikes that were blossoming up and dancing in front of my eyes. It felt like my throat was being crushed and my eyes were popping out of my head.

And then, nothing.

*************


	5. On a Day Dark and Drear

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

**Fun Facts: **Amedia (the martial artist) calls Chapter 4 "the fight of the incompetents." It's still scary, though, when someone is actually trying to kill you.

My character Haleth actually appears in the movie Two Towers. He's the kid who tells Aragorn 'the men say we will all die' and Aragorn answers 'show me your sword.'

Every OC LOTR story changes the plot somehow. In mine, Eowyn has one person who believes in her and listens to her. Anyone who has a friend knows what a difference that makes.

**Section 05 On a Day Dark and Drear**

It was quite a surprise to wake up and discover that I was still alive. By the time that I blacked out I'd pretty much given up hope that I would survive—but guess what, I did! And what's more, Gríma didn't. Complete amateur that I was, somehow I'd actually taken out Wormtongue. Before he'd quite finished strangling me, he wound up bleeding to death from the stab wound in his leg. A man doesn't have a chance when the big artery in his leg is severed. At any rate, that's what Háma told me later.

I'd actually managed to carry out the plan that I'd thought up, and now I would have to face the consequences. That was the downside of my big success—I would have to face criminal charges for what I'd done. Since I'd been found unconscious and soaked with blood right next to Gríma's body, there could be no doubt that I was the one who'd killed him. And so, in obedience to the laws of Rohan, the castle guards took me first to Guthrun, who dosed me up and bandaged me, and then off to imprisonment until I could be judged by Théoden King.

Fortunately for me, Captain Háma didn't think it was right to toss me into the dungeon, thus shaming the handmaiden of the Princess. Instead, he locked me up in the washhouse. I suppose he thought it was a suitable holding area because it had stone walls and wooden bars on the windows, but inside, of course, it was nothing at all like a jail. Inside, Meduseld's washhouse was a single large plaster-daubed room that was a lot longer than it was wide, with an open drain running the whole length of its concrete floor. On one side of the room there were two stone troughs to wash clothes in, on the other side there was a big firepit with a copper cauldron hung over it. A lot of empty wicker baskets were lying around, but not many piles of dirty laundry. That's because the washerwomen of Meduseld work darned hard.

Since Háma didn't take me there until well after dawn, three washerwomen were already hard at work. Under the circumstances, running into them was pretty humiliating, because it turned out that all three of them knew me. The head washerwoman Bronwyn, as a matter of fact, was the mother of two of my kids, Breca and Freca. After what I'd done I couldn't bear to meet their eyes, so I just stared fixedly down at the scuffed toes of my slippers while Háma told them what was going on and shooed them out of the washhouse. When he said that I'd killed Gríma I heard them all gasp, but they didn't ask Háma any questions. At any rate, they didn't ask questions while I could hear them.

Once the two of us were alone, Háma sketched out the basics of what I could expect to happen to me. Speedy, decisive justice is the tradition in Rohan. As soon as Théoden King could gather together a full company of his Riders—and that would take only a day or so—they would assemble in the Golden Hall to argue my guilt or innocence. The King would listen to everything that was said, weigh the advice of his Riders, and then he would decide on my fate. If it was his judgement that I was guilty of murdering his Counsellor, I would be taken out immediately to the main courtyard and my head would be cut off with a sword.

**And my head would be cut off with a sword!!!**

What Háma told me then was nothing more than I'd known all along—I'd considered the risks before I made up my mind to use Théodred's dagger on Gríma—but the full impact hadn't really hit me until right that minute. The people of Rohan are stoic, so I tried to be stoic too. Believe me, it was absolutely impossible. My stomach was doing back-flips, my whole body shook, and I don't think there's much chance that those whimpering noises were coming from Háma.

Captain Háma seemed to understand that I didn't want anybody to witness my sniveling, so he gave me an awkward pat on the shoulder, muttered, "Poor girl, I did not dream that I was bringing you to such a fate," and left me alone to freak out in peace.

That is, he left me alone except for the guard stationed in front of the door. After I finished hyperventilating I peeked out the window and saw poor Haldred, who was standing stiff and still as he carried out his Captain's orders to keep the ferocious handmaiden from escaping.

For a little while, in fact, thoughts of escape did cross my mind. True, the windows were barred, but they were made of wood, and the bars were half rotten from the steam constantly hitting them. But it was no good. Even if I did gnaw my way out somehow, the northern plains were swarming with Saruman's orcs. And if I somehow managed to avoid the orcs, where could I possibly go? Rivendell? Bree? The Shire? Let's face it, I'm a little tall for a hobbit.

No. I would play out the hand that I'd been dealt. As Éowyn likes to say, there is always hope. And even if the worst came to the worst, at least I'd know that I had paid off Théodred's pebble—in full.

*************

So there I was in the washhouse of Meduseld, all alone and forlorn. But I wasn't alone for very long. I was just sitting down on an inverted laundry basket that I'd turned into an ersatz stool when I heard raised voices in front of my door. By the time I could scramble to my feet, Princess Éowyn had bullied her way past Haldred and barged into my laundryroom prison.

Eyes wide and unbelieving, Éowyn stared at me from the middle of the doorway. She looked all disheveled; in her haste she must have tossed on that same black dress yet once more and her long blonde hair hadn't been brushed since she got up. "I came as soon as I heard."

All of a sudden I felt scared. What was I going to say to Éowyn? More than anything else, I couldn't bear it if Éowyn decided to condemn me for what I'd done. But why wouldn't she? The truth is, I was a murderess.

Fortunately for me, Éowyn didn't see it that way. Her face was full of sympathy and concern as she gently touched my swollen cheek, the side of my throat, and the bulky linen bandages that wrapped my left arm. "Your neck is covered with purple bruises and there are scratches all down your cheek. And your arm—was it broken?"

"No, just scraped. I'm sure it'll be all right after awhile."

Finally Éowyn asked in a low, worried voice, "Barbarella, what else did Wormtongue do to you?"

Taking a deep breath, I answered the question that she probably couldn't bear to ask me. "No, he didn't rape me. Gríma…Gríma was going to throw me off the balcony… he said I was a meddler. But I fought him, Éowyn, and I…I killed him! On purpose! Oh, Éowyn, I killed a man on purpose!"

Once I said that I couldn't hold back any longer. I started to bawl and I couldn't stop. I rocked back and forth, shuddering, and for a long while, Princess Éowyn just held me in her arms and let me cry, comforting me as if I was a beloved member of her own family. And in a way, I guess I was.

Finally she pulled back a little and gripped my shoulders tightly so that she could look at me face to face. Her blue eyes were blazing with fury. "I should have been the one who fought Gríma Wormtongue, not you. I cannot allow you to suffer in my place. Do not fear, true heart. I swear that I will do whatever is needed to protect you…"

"Don't swear!" I interrupted. I couldn't let Éowyn pitchfork herself into a catastrophe. That's just what we needed—another set of little pebbles. "We've got enough trouble already! So long as you're on my side, that's enough for me."

"Very well, if you say so," Éowyn agreed doubtfully. "But I shall see to it that Éomer speaks for you before the King's eorlingas, and I will make sure that you receive at once what you need for your body's comfort. You have already waited long enough."

I gave her a watery smile as she left on her self-appointed mission. Then I plunked back down on my laundry basket and tried to be hopeful. Éomer was not the most eloquent of men, and I didn't think that a warrior who'd wanted Gríma dead for years would be able to give the most convincing arguments about my innocence—but he was the best speaker for the defense that I was likely to get. Yeah, and they'd probably pick an orator like Captain Háma as my prosecutor.

Fortunately I didn't have much time to brood. Quicker than I could have imagined, Haleth showed up with Breca and Freca, each of them carrying a basket full of Éowyn's supplies. Haldred allowed all three of them to come in and make the delivery. Bronwyn's twins, of course, ran in and out of the washhouse almost every day, so they knew every inch of the building that had become my prison. While I unpacked the baskets, the two of them built a fire in the firepit.

When Éowyn packed those baskets she must have drawn extensively on her experience in provisioning Helm's Deep. Except for the proverbial cake with a file in it, she'd thought of everything. Food of course—bread, cheese, a jug of apple cider and an earthenware mug. Toiletries too—brush, soap, and a much-needed toothbrush. For later, a straw sleeping mat and a wool blanket. And most thoughtful of all, Éowyn had packed her own brown felt jumper to keep me warm. Offering me her own clothing was such a kindness that I felt warmer just looking at it. I stepped behind a concealing stack of hampers and immediately put it on over Guthrun's threadbare white smock.

Once that was done I decided that it was time for the kids to go. Haldred had been keeping an eye on us through the doorway all along—as if I was going to order them to carry out a battle charge, or something! But my kids needed to leave soon, anyway, before they figured out a way to get themselves into trouble. As it was, Haleth kept demanding to know what exactly was going on, and I finally told him to ask Gamling. Not his Dad—that would have been too tough on both of them. Just the idea of seeing me in custody had him really upset, but he obeyed my orders the way he always did.

And then it really was just me, all alone in the washhouse. As the hours dragged past I slowly got used to the horror of the situation and began to feel more bored than anything else. From time to time I tried to think up some kind of cunning plot to get myself out of there, but this time there was nothing that I could do. I would really have to depend on what other people could do for me.

Since the washhouse windows faced toward the hillside that Meduseld was built on, I couldn't see very much of what was happening outdoors. Sometimes I could see the heads of the taller townspeople as they walked up the slope, and once, later on in the day, I caught a glimpse of a couple of riders as they galloped through the gate and up the hill. But mostly I just stared wistfully up at the White Mountains. There was still a lot of snow on those mountain peaks, even though it was nearly spring. In fact, they were probably high enough in altitude that they'd stay snowcapped all summer, just like the Rocky Mountains. It would have been nice to see for myself whether they stayed snowcapped all summer.

So long as I was wishing, though, why not just wish to get back home and be able to look up at the Rockies instead?

*************

Eventually I heard the sound of male voices outside the hut, then a metallic rattle as Haldred unlocked the door. This would probably be Éomer, finally showing up for the pre-trial briefing.

But no, it wasn't Éomer after all. When the door was flung open, I found myself looking at a complete stranger. Whoever he was, my visitor was obviously a foreigner. He was a lot skinnier than the broad-shouldered Riders of Rohan, and his long stringy hair was almost as dark as Gríma's. As he strode into the washhouse I observed that his cracked boots were caked with grassy mud and that his shabby clothing and cape were stained and grubby. It was easy to deduce that he'd been travelling for a long time.

Except for the nobleman's sword hanging at his side, he looked more like a scruffy tramp than anything, and moreover, he seemed to be staring at my breasts. Annoyed, I opened my mouth to say something cutting when he beat me to the punch and spoke first.

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Princess Éowyn has requested that I assist you in your time of need."

Oh. That's right. It really was Aragorn.

It was a little embarrassing that I hadn't recognized Aragorn right off. I'd always known that some of the Fellowship would eventually show up in Rohan, and by this time most of the others were either dead or a hobbit. But in real life you don't sit around day after day waiting for the arrival of fictional people, so after a while I stopped thinking about them.

Anyway, there'd been no reason to assume that the Fellowship would really look like the actors who'd played them in the movies. As it turned out, my travel-weary guest did resemble the movie star with the weird first name—but only up to a point. He didn't much resemble a Royal Highness either–-at least, he didn't resemble Prince Charles, who's the only prince I'd ever actually seen a photo of. He was unshaven, weatherbeaten, dirty, and bone-tired—the kind of tired you only get after days of slogging around out in the wilderness. He looked even more tired than I felt, and that's saying a lot!

In spite of his shabbiness, I couldn't help but be impressed by this oddly familiar stranger—because he really did have the proverbial 'look of eagles'. I dated a guy once from the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, and some of those fighter pilots really do have a stare like that. Having seen it before, I'd define it as 'a hard scan to the horizon in search of prey'.

At that moment, what this tall, formidable warrior was scanning was **me**—a bedraggled redhead with a scab on her nose and not a speck of makeup. In a less peremptory voice, he told me, "I came to Edoras to stand with the people of Rohan in this time of trouble, and to fight beside them against their enemies. Princess Éowyn has told me about the danger that you face. I will do my best to help you as she requested, but first I would know where you got that necklace. It much resembles a jewel that was given to me by an elven lady, and I had always believed that no other necklace like mine was ever fashioned in Middle-earth."

Of course! It was my phony Evenstar he'd been staring at—not my bosom. He was right about the 'never fashioned in Middle-earth' part—not that I dared explain that to him. There is no insanity defense in Rohan.

The real Evenstar was glittering in a fold of his cloak, and as far as I could tell, my fake resembled it a lot, except that the gemstone in mine was a few shades bluer. Over the past few thrill-packed months, I'd wondered off and on what my own 'elven necklace' was made of. Was it a real jewel set in mithril, or just cubic zirconium and silver? So I asked Aragorn, "Would you like a closer look at my necklace?"

Yes, Aragorn would very much like a closer look. He'd been too much of a gentleman to grab it off my neck, but as soon as I pulled it over my head, he quickly snatched the pendant from my hands and held it up to the window to examine it. After he'd twisted and turned it to catch the afternoon sun from all angles, he shook his head in frustration. "It is silver drawn in the elvish fashion, and your gemstone is a blue topaz without a flaw, but I am not enough of a jewelsmith to know whether it is truly the work of the Elves."

"I haven't the faintest idea either," I admitted. "My mother gave it to me, and I have no idea who she got it from. Not from an Elf though, I'm sure."

"Then from what land do you and this necklace come?" Aragorn demanded. "Princess Éowyn told me that you appeared out of nowhere, but surely everyone has a home and a people."

"You've probably never heard of the land I come from—I've asked every Rider who ever traveled outside the Mark, and none of them have heard of it. I come from a place called Penn's Woods."

(That's the literal translation of 'Pennsylvania', for anyone who's linguistically curious.)

If I kept fiddling with the braid on Éowyn's jumper, I'd look nervous and guilty, so I clasped my hands together tightly on my lap and took a deep breath. Then I told him the truth—but not the whole truth. "My mom lives in Hershey, a little town in the eastern half of Penn's Woods. It's a couple of leagues from the Susquehanna River. Earlier this winter, I had a road accident on the way to my mother's house. I was knocked out, and when I woke up I found myself alone on the northern plains of Rohan. I haven't the faintest idea who brought me here, or why. As I told Captain Háma, it's a complete mystery."

Aragorn seemed to riffle through a mental Rolodex of foreign names and places. It must have been a pretty big Rolodex, because he wound up pondering for some time. Eventually he said, "You are right—I have never heard of Hershey, or of Penn's Woods. And what of your people—do they have any knowledge of us? Have they heard of the land of Rohan, or of Gondor?"

"Only as legends and as myths. I don't believe that anybody from my land has ever come here, except for me."

That was all the useless geography I was going to inflict on him. But there was one more thing that I needed to say. "A couple of months ago, Aragorn, I was brought to Edoras as a stranger without country or kin. When I needed help the most, Princess Éowyn took me in. As far as I'm concerned, Éowyn's people **are** my people, and her home is my home. Whatever I can do for her, I will."

I'll bet that a speech like that seems pretty silly to you—as a matter of fact, it sounded kind of pompous to me, too. Fortunately, Aragorn was a noble hero of Middle-earth, not a twenty-first century cynic like you or me. He simply nodded. "I too have served the royal house of Rohan. They deserve this loyalty."

After considering what I had told him, Aragorn handed back my Evenstar. "I would prefer to know more about where you come from and who forged your necklace, but we have no more time for these questions. This very night, the King's Riders will assemble in the Golden Hall and Théoden King will decide your guilt or innocence. We must prepare now for what will come."

Everything was happening so fast! I'm afraid I would have broken down if I hadn't had Aragorn to lean on. "What do we do now?"

"Princess Éowyn has asked me to speak to Théoden's Riders in your defense, and so I shall. But first you must tell me everything that occurred between you and the King's Counsellor Gríma."

I don't know what I'd expected, but it wasn't that. Naturally, as soon as I opened my mouth, I stuck my foot in it. Chalk it up to adrenaline poisoning and too many police procedurals. "What!? But you're a Ranger! What does a Ranger know about the law of Rohan?"

Uh oh. Can we say, 'clueless airhead?'

Luckily for me, Aragorn didn't get angry at my snarky question. He squinted at me a little and pointed at the laundry basket I'd been sitting on with a 'down, girl' gesture. Then, overturning another basket for himself, he sat down. As soon as I obeyed his unspoken order and settled myself on my ersatz 'chair,' he told me, "You need not doubt my knowledge of the customs of Rohan. Many years ago, I rode with the éored of Théoden's father, King Thengel. I am well acquainted with this land and with its people."

Swift move, Barb—really swift move. What did you expect the guy to say, anyway? 'I'm Aragorn, Heir of Isildur, and I'm here to rescue you'?

"I—I'm so sorry, Lord Aragorn—I shouldn't have mouthed off like that. I've been worrying myself half crazy and I didn't realize what I was saying."

"No, you have a right to be concerned—it is your life that hangs in the balance." Aragorn was slowly rubbing his knuckles down his sinuses and the bridge of his nose. Either he had a splitting headache, or he was sick and tired of being yapped at by clueless people. Maybe both. "Tell me, are you quite sure you've never been to Gondor?"

"Never. No one even spoke of it to me until I came here." Of course Boromir kept talking about Gondor in the Fellowship movie, but it wouldn't be very prudent to mention that.

Aragorn gave me that 'look of eagles' once again, making me feel like a quivering rabbit under the gaze of a hunting hawk. "Barbarella, you have been accused of murder and you are in peril of your life. You must decide now—will you trust me or will you not? Because if you would have my help, I must know all."

I could see where Aragorn was coming from, but I wasn't sure whether it would help me to tell him what he wanted to know. What had actually happened was really pretty unbelievable. We stared at each other in total silence while I considered my options, such as they were. This was what you'd call 'the moment of truth'—assuming I dared to give the truth to him.

Could Aragorn really understand what was going on in Edoras? I hadn't told Éowyn everything I knew, and I trusted her with my life. Could I trust a total stranger with the full story of what I'd done?

Finally I accepted that the answer had to be 'yes.' Not because Aragorn was such a big hero in _The Lord_ _of the Rings_, but because he was a warrior who had just volunteered to risk his life for Rohan. If you can't trust a man who's willing to die for your people, who can you trust? Mouth dry, I nodded. "I do trust you, Lord Aragorn. I do."


	6. The Case of the Clueless Handmaiden

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Monday is a holiday in the U.S. so I'm rushing to update early.

And many thanks to all my reviewers! I'm enjoying your comments at least as much as you enjoy my story!

More more more (please)

**Section 06 The Case of the Clueless Handmaiden**

Aragorn leaned forward toward me until we were practically head-to-head. "Then tell me what really transpired between you and the King's Counsellor. For what reason were you in the north tower so late at night, and why did you take Prince Théodred's dagger to Gríma's room?"

Here was a man with an excellent grasp of the basics of interrogation. Even if I'd wanted to use my usual half-truths, they wouldn't have worked this time. "All right, I'll tell you—even though I know it will make me look guilty. I took the dagger to Gríma's chamber because I intended to kill him. But in spite of that fact, I did not attack him unprovoked. When Gríma found me in front of his door and saw that there was nobody else around, he decided that it was a good opportunity for him to murder me instead. He grabbed hold of my hair and nearly threw me off the balcony before I had a chance to pull out my dagger."

Stern, impassive Ranger or no, Aragorn was still rocked back a little by what I said. Whatever it was he'd expected to hear, it can't have been that. "The penalty for harming a member of the King's household is death. Both of you knew this. What caused this reckless hate between you and Counsellor Gríma?"

"Look, this wasn't personal! I didn't want to kill Gríma because I hated him—I wanted to kill him because he was Saruman's spy!" Of course it would never occur to a man like Aragorn that a mere woman might have motivations other than her emotions. Mid-diatribe, I paused to clarify an important point. "You do know that Saruman's evil, right?"

"I know this. But most do not." Aragorn's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Very well. You claim that Saruman's spy tried to kill you. Why did he do this?"

This was the most important question that I'd ever answer in my whole life. How could I possibly convince Aragorn that I was telling the truth? As I asked myself that, it occurred to me that—weirdly enough—the situation felt a lot like my master's comps—three years of graduate study all riding on a single day of examinations. Now, what had Professor Bell advised me before I took the orals?

_Keep cool and don't forget what you know.  
Include concrete details.  
Be prepared to support what you say._

Crossing my ankles, I sat up straight and pressed on with the explanation of a lifetime.

"It didn't take long after I showed up in Edoras for me to find out what a menace Gríma was. His official title was 'First Counsellor of the King,' but if you ask around, you'll hear that there's been no other Counsellor for the past three years. He kept whispering that Prince Théodred was surely too young, and Prince Éomer too hotheaded, for Théoden to give them greater authority. Since nobody could win an argument against Wormtongue, Théoden King started to believe what he said."

Should I tell him about the King being poisoned? No—I still couldn't prove it. I certainly wasn't going to bring up the lecherous looks that Gríma kept directing at Princess Éowyn. She'd gotten cold chills every time she noticed them, and it would humiliate her if Aragorn heard about them. Better to keep away from that.

"At any rate, once Gríma got the reins firmly in his hands, he began to cut down the patrols that were sent out against Saruman's orcs. Princess Éowyn learned when she got a look at the King's records that Gríma had ignored Rohan's Keeps and left their supplies and weapons to rot."

I shrugged. "Théoden's captains saw what was going on, but they didn't understand how to stop it. You know as well as I do, the men of Rohan don't know how to handle a sneak like Gríma."

"The men of Rohan are too honorable to understand the minds of traitors." It wasn't until Aragorn shifted uncomfortably that I realized how cramped he must have been the whole time he was listening to me. A big man like him had to practically fold up like an accordion in order to fit on that little laundry basket. And yet, he'd given me his full courtesy and his complete attention.

This was all wrong. Aragorn was a hero and the leader of the Fellowship. He was supposed to save the Free People from Sauron—with a little help from Frodo—and become King of Gondor. The last place on Middle-earth that he should be was a laundry hut in Edoras.

I felt humble and embarrassed and honored, all at once. There was no way that I'd ever be able to pay him back for what he was doing for me.

So I simply went on with my story, as he'd requested.

"The trouble between me and Gríma finally came to a head when Prince Théodred was on his deathbed and that worm barged into his sickroom to slime over him. I lost my temper, started yelling at him, and wound up telling him straight out that I knew that he was a traitor working for Saruman against Rohan."

Perched as I was on a laundry basket, I couldn't lean back or even slump very much, so I stretched out my legs and stared hard at the toes of my slippers. "In other words, I blew it. Once I told him that I knew what he was up to, I was on his hit list for sure. What's more, he had some crazy ideas about me. Believe it or not, he thought that I was a secret agent sent by Lord Elrond."

Aragorn gave me a long, speculative look. "And are you?"

"Me??!" I was absolutely stupefied—how could Aragorn possibly see me as anything but a spear-carrier? "Surely you of all people know that Lord Elrond would never do such a thing!"

"For Elrond to choose a mortal woman as his agent would seem unlikely, but he has granted great tasks to persons that I would never have selected. A whole mortal lifetime is not sufficient to fathom the subtlety of the Elves." Aragorn's eyes darkened with sadness. "But if you did not come to Edoras under the orders of Lord Elrond, then under whose guidance did you do these things?'

"Believe it or not, I thought it all up on my own." I glared at Aragorn. "Look, I'm no warrior—but Gríma was a dangerous man, and somebody had to do something."

In many respects Lord Aragorn has the noncommittal face of a politician. You could look straight at him and have no idea what he was actually thinking. After considering my words for a few moments, he rose to his feet. "I understand now why Princess Éowyn values her handmaiden so highly. Prepare yourself as best you may. In a few hours you will be summoned to the King's Hall."

It was only after Aragorn left that I realized I'd forgotten to ask if Gandalf had come with him to Edoras. For months I'd been going crazy wondering how I'd gotten there and whether I'd ever be able to get home. Only a Wizard like Gandalf would be able to tell me who brought me to Middle-earth—and why.

*************

I barely had time to catch my breath before Captain Háma showed up to deliver me to the Golden Hall. He was wearing his full, imposing Doorwarden's armor—helmet, metal gorget, scalemail, and boots—the same as I'd worn in my 'prophetic' dream!

But under the Doorwarden's forbidding helm I saw the concerned eyes of a friend. Poor Háma—he really hated this. He looked like a cowboy who'd accidentally shot the schoolmarm instead of the bad guy. Just as if he was an honor guard instead of my jailer, Háma placed my right hand on his mailed left arm as we stepped out of the washhouse into the night.

After dusk, a town without electricity is really dark. Edoras has no streetlights, and all the householders shutter their windows when the sun goes down. But there was torchlight shining through all the ground floor windows of Meduseld, so it was clearly visible at the top of the high hill. Háma and I walked up the hill in total silence. It was all so dreadful that neither of us could figure out anything to say.

When we climbed the last stair to the Golden Hall I was stunned to see all twelve of my kids lined up next to the Great Doors. In order of age, they were: Haleth, son of Háma; Alfwine, son of Gamling and cousin of Haleth; Elric and Fréalof, the best stableboys in Edoras; the soon-to-be-squires Faegan, Caedmund, and Wulfhelm; Breca and Freca, the washerwoman's sons; and my trio of littles—Wilibald, Drogo, and Wiglaf. Some of the younger ones, Wiglaf especially, looked scared to death, so I faked a confident smile and gave them all a 'thumbs up' sign with both hands. Then Háma and I passed through the doorway and another Doorwarden that I didn't recognize shut the Great Doors behind us.

It took a moment for my eyes to get used to the torchlight—and for my lungs to get used to all the smoky torches in the sconces. Meduseld was packed with dozens of men that night—almost as many as at Théodred's funeral. Some of the Riders were tired and sweaty after a long day in the saddle, while others were so scrubbed-up and shiny that they must have come straight from the barracks. There were even some white-haired grandfathers who'd put what remained of their old armor over baggy woolen tunics and trousers. When I couldn't spot anybody from Éomer's éored I began to get scared. I'd expected that Éomer would show up to help me!

It took a while for Háma and me to make our way through the Great Hall. We had to squeeze through row after row of broad-shouldered eorlingas, and about two-thirds of them—most of them his friends—tried to stop him and ask what was going on. He pushed past them wordlessly and I followed in his wake, head down. A few Riders tried to ask questions of me, too, but I pretended that I didn't hear them.

Eventually Háma threaded me up to the front of the Hall and brought me nearly to the feet of Théoden King, right next to a group of glowering footmen in black felt surcoats. Ascending the steps in front of the Golden Throne, he took his position at the left hand of the King, beside Gamling. And then I was alone.

On that night, every element of the King's appearance was calculated to strike fear and awe in anyone who saw him. His chased battle helm both framed and masked his face, and his wolfskin cape was caught by a massive bronze horsehead clasp that I'd only ever seen hanging in his study. His long tunic was blood red and his riding boots were covered with dark metal studs. When I saw his great sword Herugrim in the scabbard at his side, I began to shiver. I had no doubt that Théoden would follow the customs of his people and order my head to be chopped off if it seemed right to him.

Once again the battle flags of Rohan hung on the walls of Meduseld—black and white, red and gold, horses and suns. But this time one more banner was displayed over Théoden King's head. It was fashioned of dark blue cloth emblazoned top to bottom with a silver-stitched column of those white death-flowers from the tomb mounds. I didn't know what it meant, but it sure felt like a bad omen.

One of Éowyn's cross-stitched pillows was lying at the base of the stairs that led to the throne. I took the hint and knelt down on it, my eyes fixed on the flagstones of the floor. Háma had told me earlier what to expect from this hearing. In theory, I could speak for myself—in fact, anybody in the Hall could say whatever he chose—but since this was a capital offense, any of the Riders could challenge the truth of a speaker's statement by force of arms. In other words, what I faced was very much like the medieval trial by combat. If I opened my mouth, anyone in the Hall would be allowed to take a whack at me. As Háma had put it, "Better to say nothing at all."

In a situation like this, it didn't look like there was much I could do for myself. Where was Éomer? Was he still out chasing orcs in the Westfold?

Nerving myself up, I peeked through my eyelashes and saw that Éowyn was standing on the dais at the far right of the King. She was pale and stiff lipped, and her beautiful white gown with the silver-netting overtunic made her look like a Snow Queen. I hated to think of how worried she must be.

It didn't look like Éomer was going to show. If Aragorn hadn't appeared in the nick of time, I'd have been screwed.

Which brought up an important question—where **was** Aragorn?

Just as I started to worry again, there were quiet footsteps behind me and a strong hand clasped my right shoulder. My defense attorney had arrived. "Hail Théoden, King of Rohan. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I come before you and your Riders to speak in defense of this maiden."

Théoden nodded, looking every inch the grim leader of war that every King of the Mark had to be. His powerful voice needed no electronic loudspeaker, even in the crowded Hall. "Men of Rohan! I call you together tonight to assist me in making judgement. This woman is accused of murdering a member of my household. As you listen to what is said, remember that the penalty for such a crime is death."

His eyes remote and stern, Théoden asked the man standing behind me, "Lord Aragorn, why have you come to speak on the woman's behalf? Are you her kinsman?"

Aragorn bowed respectfully. "No, I stand at her side for pity's sake and in the name of justice."

"You may stand with her, but let her speak for herself to me and to my Riders."

Aragorn whispered to me, "Have no fear, I will protect you. Stand up and tell the Rohirrim that you are innocent."

And so it began. The stuffy Hall suddenly felt icy cold, and I began to shiver. Within a few hours I would find out whether I was going to live or die!

Scrambling to my feet, I stood up and looked Théoden right in the eye. I knew I had to face the King straight on if I wanted to be believed, but it was scary in the extreme.

"I am Barbarella, daughter of Naomi. King Théoden, I did kill Gríma, but I did it in self-defense. He attacked me while the two of us were alone in the North Tower. There was no one around to help me, so I had to defend myself with a dagger."

Théoden King listened gravely to my words, but said nothing. There wasn't anything that he really had to say that night—until the very end.

Before Aragorn had a chance to open his mouth, a tall old man with incredible presence pushed rapidly through the crowd toward the King. The armored Rohirrim separated around him like rapids around a rock.

Gandalf had come back! I have no idea how he escaped from the bottomless pit, but apparently the balrog incident had turned his hair snow white. His fierce eyes were blazing, his robes billowed around him like threatening grey storm clouds, and he was much, much taller than I recalled from the Fellowship movie—at least half a head taller than Lord Aragorn and most of the Rohirrim. He made me feel like a munchkin.

In ringing, theatrical tones, the Wizard proclaimed, "King Théoden! Saruman's orcs are even now raiding the Westfold. There is no time to waste—you must ride out immediately and meet your enemy head-on."

Well! Everybody was shocked into silence by this out-of-the-blue announcement. At the sound of Gandalf's commanding voice Aragorn shut up immediately and the King himself wound up looking away from the Wizard's piercing blue eyes. I heard angry murmurs, though, from the crowd of Riders. Essentially, Gandalf was telling the King how he should manage his kingdom, and you couldn't expect a man of Rohan to stomach that. Some of the black-surcoated footsoldiers actually shook their spears at him.

Then a spearman whose curly hair was even frizzier than mine dared to stomp forward and confront Gandalf. "What have we to do with your Wizards' quarrel? Saruman may be your enemy, Stormcrow, but he has ever been a friend to Rohan."

Gandalf pointed his ornately carved white staff at his much-shorter opponent as if he was a little kid mouthing off in class. "Saruman is no friend to Rohan. He breeds orcs to attack you! Gríma Wormtongue knew all this, yet he chose to heed Saruman's fair words instead of his King's."

The black-haired footsoldier slammed his wooden spear down hard onto the stone floor, his round face reddening with rage, "How dare you slander a dead man? I am Baltar, son of Den, and I say you lie! Gríma was my kinsman. He was a loyal Counsellor to the King and the only friend the Northern Cousins could claim within Théoden's court."

At that moment I realized what was really happening. This was a political trial, just like Rodney King's.

During my time in Edoras I'd been told a little about the 'Northern Cousins'. Very few of them were any good with horses, so they were allowed to serve the King on foot. Most of them were as olive-skinned as the Dunlendings and as dark-haired as Gríma—and doubtlessly related to both by blood—but they were a legitimate clan in the Westfold, and they had the same rights as any other citizen of Rohan. Éomer and his éored still loathed each and every one of them, nevertheless.

If you think that sounds pretty racist, you're probably right.

While all of this was going through my mind, Gandalf's two companions, one on either side of him, stepped forward to enter the fray. "Saruman's murdering orcs kidnapped our friends!" yelled the short craggy one on the left. He was waving an axe and hopping up and down as if he was used to being overshadowed in every crowd. The tall blond on the right leaned nonchalantly on his longbow and said, "What the Dwarf says is true. The orcs that attacked our party all wore the White Hand of Saruman."

Gandalf's friends, of course, were Gimli and Legolas. I was surprised to see how little the two of them looked like the actors in the movie. Master Gimli is, indeed, a Dwarf, and a Dwarf just isn't built like a normal man. His forehead came up only to my chin, but his brawny shoulders and massive forearms were broader than Éomer's. And did I say 'craggy'? Gimli's weathered face had more wrinkles than I've ever seen on anyone who could still chew with his own teeth. This was not somebody who'd conceivably be cast for any role in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_—except maybe as a pyramid.

As for Legolas… how can I say this? Orlando Bloom is a cute actor who's about the same age as me. Prince Legolas is an immortal Elf, no more human than a Vulcan from the original Star Trek. At first glance the guy seemed ageless, and in fact, he really is. I was told later that he was born before Rohan's ancient predecessors carved the fortress of Helm's Deep from the rocks. His every move was practiced and perfect, with the flawless grace of a great ballet dancer. He'd seen it all, done it all, and the serene smile on his luminous face was as changeless as a smile on a marble statue. After awhile the guy grows on you, but my first impression was that he was kind of creepy.

And yes, that's probably racist too.

The Cousins all started to shout insults at Gimli and Legolas—"Lathspell," "Crowbait," "Sorcerer," and "Mud Eater" were some of the more pleasant ones. The two comrades gripped axe and bow, readying themselves for a fight.

Before Baltar or any of his kinsmen could work up the heedless rage that they'd need to jump a group that included a powerful Wizard, Aragorn raised both of his hands and shouted, "Have you forgotten the reason we are here? We were summoned to the Golden Hall of Meduseld to offer counsel to Théoden King. Let no man amongst us dare to affront the King's justice!"

Now Aragorn's voice is just as carrying as Háma's, and of course the King was giving all of his people the beady eye, so within seconds the Hall was so silent you could hear the torches crackle. As for me, I was doing my utmost best to keep even my breathing quiet.

Aragorn turned to Gandalf as if to question him, but the Wizard only shook his head and said, "I have not passed through fire and death to bandy words with witless fools and malcontents."

Meeting the eyes of the crowd, Aragorn spoke to them all compellingly. "Men of Rohan, I ask that your justice be tempered with mercy. Let the maiden go free—she was protecting herself from a man who was stronger than she."

Unimpressed by a mere foreigner, Baltar stalked right up to Aragorn and glared up at him. "Shall Gríma's blood not be avenged? Has Rohan no justice for a man without friends?"

Aragorn's intense voice drew in everyone in the Hall. "Enough blood has already been spilled on Gríma's account. There is no need for vengeance. Barbarella has sworn to you that her act was in self-defense."

"So says the killer." Baltar's voice was a cutting whine that reminded me a lot of Gríma. Pulling himself up to his full height, which was still considerably shorter than Aragorn's, he continued, "Is this not always the way of it? Would this woman, slayer of a King's Counsellor, be so readily excused if she was dark of skin and hair instead of a straw—-"

Whoops! When Baltar realized that he'd nearly blurted out the hated insult 'strawhead,' his swarthy face went pasty-white. If Éomer's éored had been amongst us, I think we would have had a riot then and there. As it was, everyone shouted at once and I got scared that a brawl would start up with me right in the middle. The Northern Cousins were badly outnumbered and even I could tell that their spears wouldn't be much use in indoor combat, but the way everybody was goading each other, after awhile nobody would care how good his weapon was.

Once again Aragorn played peacemaker. He stepped between the Riders and the Cousins and yelled, "This is the Golden Hall! Will you spill each others' blood in the King's very presence?"

The hubbub quieted down after a bit and the two factions settled down, grumbling. Then Aragorn approached the Golden Throne and held up his palms to the King. "Let us settle this matter with reason, not hot words. I beg a boon of the King so that the truth of this matter may be determined."

The King looked first to Aragorn and then turned his attention to Baltar, who squeezed his spear in a white-knuckled grip and said nothing. That's what made Théoden such a great leader—he did not overlook even his lowly footman. "What boon do you ask of me, Lord Aragorn?"

"Two persons fought each other last night, but only one appears before you tonight. So that we can discover what truly passed between Barbarella and Gríma, I ask that the body of the King's Counsellor be brought forth."

After a puzzled pause, Théoden King nodded. Aragorn gave me an encouraging look and then leaped up on a stone bench to wave at the back of the Hall. I couldn't see who he was waving at, because the Hall was so full, but I did see the tops of the Great Doors begin to swing open.

I realized then that the whole thing was a setup.

Clearly, Aragorn had arranged some sort of scheme with somebody that I wasn't able to see over the heads of the Riders. I started to ask him to tell me what was going on, but decided against it. Whatever was going to happen would happen whether I knew about it or not. Why tip his hand in front of the Cousins?

The Hall grew silent as the rows of Rohirrim opened to leave an aisle down the middle of the room. And then I saw four of my big kids—Haleth, Alfwine, Elric, and Fréalof—march down that aisle toward us carrying a stretcher that looked very much like Théodred's burial litter. The body on the stretcher was covered up with a stiff cloth, just like Théodred.

When the boys reached Aragorn and me they set the litter down on the stone bench and stepped back all solemn and warriorish—except that Haleth gave me a quick 'thumbs up' when he thought that nobody could see him.

Before I was able to react to what was happening, Aragorn snapped the cloth away from the litter to reveal a naked corpse. "Behold the body of Gríma, son of Galmod. Let the dead man speak the truth!"


	7. Trial of the Century

**Usual disclaimers and thanks:** nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

And thanks also to my reviewers—I appreciate you all!

**Section 07 Trial of the Century**

Of course that's who it was. I really didn't want to look at Gríma's corpse—even the idea was pretty awful. And then I thought—I was the one who stabbed him. I had to look.

And yes, the reality of looking at Gríma was dreadful.

His body hadn't been wrapped up in burial clothes yet, so it was completely naked—not that the sight of dead flesh would bother a group of Riders. To the Rohirrim, the important consideration was dignity, not nudity. Somebody had washed him for burial though, because his body was clean and pale—horribly pale, as if no blood was left in him. Thankfully, I couldn't see his eyes, because his long black hair had fallen down over his face like a widow's veil. I gulped hard and turned away. It was finally beginning to hit me that I had actually killed a man.

It was a good thing that Aragorn was going to do all the talking, because right then I needed to concentrate on not throwing up.

"Baltar, son of Den," Aragorn said directly to his Northern Cousin adversary, "It appears to me that your kinsman's body has only one stab wound in the meat of the leg. Is this not so?"

Baltar laid his hand gently on Gríma's corpse. Distrustful though he was of Aragorn, he was compelled to agree. "Yes, he was slain by a single killing blow. My kinsman must have bled to death very quickly. It can happen that way."

Nodding quietly at Baltar, Aragorn allowed this fact to sink into the minds of his listeners. I waited with tense anticipation for Aragorn's next move.

When Aragorn did make his move, it came as a complete shock to me. Without warning, he grabbed me by the shoulders and swung me around so that I was facing all of the eorlingas who had been my friends and were now my judges. That felt pretty bad. Then he pulled up one of my long sleeves and showed the skin underneath to the entire Hall.

You know, the human mind's funny—I actually felt embarrassed to have him display my naked arm to a whole crowd of men. Just my arm! Me, a modern woman, in the middle of a life-or-death situation!

Aragorn ignored my cringing and raised up my chin with his thumb. "Men of Rohan, look at Barbarella's injuries. There are choke-marks on her neck, scrapes and cuts on her upper arm. Her face is scratched the full length of her cheek, she is bruised everywhere that we can see. Baltar—can you explain how your kinsman could have inflicted all of these wounds after he had already received a killing blow?"

Every man in the hall was thunderstruck, and so was I. I'll bet Tolkien never dreamed that Rangers knew criminology. With just one sentence, Lord Aragorn had rolled up the prosecution's whole case. He was a Middle-earth Perry Mason!

Baltar tried to stammer a reply, but the words died in his mouth. He shifted his frustrated gaze between his angry kinsmen and his stern-eyed King and must have realized that he wasn't likely to please anyone on either side that night. In fact, he was probably going to be blamed for what he said next no matter what response he chose.

For what it's worth, he chose the truth. "I…cannot, Lord Aragorn."

"Then surely it was Gríma who struck the first blow."

Confounded, Baltar hung down his head and said nothing.

At that point an earsplitting bellow erupted from Aragorn's Dwarf friend Gimli. "That's magnificent, laddie! You're the cunningest, smartest, sharpest-eyed man I ever knew!" He was leaping up and down as excited as if it was him who'd just been cleared of a murder charge. As for Legolas—well, he was beaming slightly, like an indulgent parent whose little boy had performed really well at the piano recital.

But neither of the two Walkers mattered very much to me after I heard Haleth's clear tenor from the side of the Hall where my kids were standing. "Théoden King, I believe what Princess Éowyn's handmaiden said, that she killed your Counsellor in self-defense. Spare Barbarella's life, I beg of you."

My heart nearly stopped. Haleth understood precisely what he'd just let himself in for, and so did I. By the laws of Rohan, any of the Northern Cousins could challenge him to defend his statement with his life. Haleth's three friends pressed tightly around him, clutching their belt-knives and glaring at the Cousins. The moment felt very tense.

And then Gamling, a man of few words, turned to the King and declared, "So say I."

After that everybody in the Hall started yelling at once. Fortunately for me, the people of Rohan love a good story—and this one was a blockbuster. Exhilarated, the Riders were clapping each other's shoulders and stamping their feet and clanging their shields. It wasn't even a contest—every one of them was on my side. Most of them had loathed Gríma anyway

Defeated, the Northern Cousins kept their mouths shut and growled.

But I wasn't out of the woods yet. No matter what the Riders said, the decision was ultimately the King's. Holding my breath, I peeked up hopefully at him. I didn't have long to wait. Splendid in scarlet and bronze, King Théoden stepped forward, raised his hands to the crowd and proclaimed, "Let the maiden Barbarella be set free. My heart accepts the counsel of my Riders—she is guiltless."

Hearing those words was such a relief that I nearly fainted. I was laughing and crying all at once and I'm pretty sure that I was kissing Lord Aragorn's hands over and over—or at least his wrist bracers. Then Éowyn jumped down from the dais and we practically did a victory jig right there in front of everybody.

In a matter of minutes my four kids were clustering around me. They'd done so much on my behalf that night—actually risking their lives for me. I was so proud of them—and more grateful than I could say.

Caught up in the kids' energetic group hug, I was in no position to see what was going on around us. Gamling's son Alfwine, however, briefly surveyed the boisterous mob of Riders and told Haleth with his usual bluntness, "We cannot allow Barbarella to remain in the Golden Hall tonight."

"Why not?" Haleth asked. "What is left to hinder her?"

Why not, indeed? We'd won the case, hadn't we?

Although he was a smidge shorter and younger than Haleth, Alfwine was Gamling's son through and through. Once that boy made his mind up there was no stopping him. "When the men begin to drink somebody will start a fight, and if Barbarella is still here they'll fight about her. We cannot allow that to happen."

After thinking about it for a moment, Haleth agreed with his cousin, as I'd known he would. "I suppose you're right."

Alfwine gave him a long-suffering look. "You know I'm right."

A quick look around confirmed what Alfwine was saying—several grandfatherly types were already gleefully rolling barrels up from the cellar. It wasn't much of a surprise. Whenever this many Riders got together they usually figured out some reason for a party. Théoden King and Princess Éowyn hadn't stuck around to tamp them down, either. My guess was that they'd adjourned for a council of war, because the Fellowship guys—Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Gandalf—were also nowhere to be seen.

"Where can we possibly take her this time of night? Everyone who didn't come here is already asleep," objected Elric the stableboy. Most nights he and Fréalof slept in the King's Stables right next to the horses. I didn't even have to tell him that was no place for me!

Alfwine's response was sure and immediate. "We'll take her down the hill to Wiglaf's house!"

All of the other boys agreed with Alfwine immediately. For one thing, Wiglaf's mom had the admirable habit of baking cookies. Every couple of days she'd come up to Meduseld with a big basket of muffins, scones, cookies, and a kind of filled cake roll that reminded me of Strawberry Newtons. For another thing, they figured that since he was the baby of the family, his parents were probably still awake and waiting up for him. Little kids like Wiglaf normally didn't get mixed up in criminal trials.

*************

So once again I stepped out into the dark empty streets of Edoras. But this time the town wasn't so eerie and quiet—because this time I was surrounded by a bunch of noisy kids. Just like Háma, Wiglaf put his hand on my wrist to guide me—except that Wiglaf had to reach up instead of down. My new honor guard was only nine—and cute as a button.

Like every other commoner's cottage in Edoras, Wiglaf's house seemed to be waiting for Little Red Riding Hood and her basket. His home was like an Old Americana picture postcard—its wooden walls were weathered grey by the harsh seasons in Rohan and a horsehead symbol was nailed like an Amish hex sign to the sharp-pointed tip of its thatched roof. Yes, the family was still awake. Unbanked firelight was glowing through the hand-carved window shutters.

Before my knuckles even hit the door, Wiglaf's mother flung it open and stood in the doorway. Audhumbhla wasn't much older than my own mom, but she looked a lot like a fairytale grandmother. She had white hair tied up in a neat bun, a large, comfortable bosom, and a round face that was usually calm and serene. That night she was nervously wringing her flour-covered apron and looked completely wigged.

"Barbarella! But I thought…" Wiglaf's mom took a long breath and said hastily, "Wiglaf, my nodling, bring the poor woman indoors right now! She needs to sit down and be comfortable."

As she hustled me inside, I realized that Audhumbhla had probably thought that my head had already been separated from my body and that Wiglaf was sobbing over it. No wonder she was still awake! Her expectations would most likely have come true, too, if Aragorn hadn't shown up.

When all twelve boys had filed inside we were a little squished, because Wiglaf's whole house isn't much bigger than Mom's living room. As a matter of fact, most of the cottage **is** a living room. One of its walls leans up against the hill that Meduseld is built on, and the family had dug their pantry into the hillside itself. Overhead they'd also stacked bedding on the ceiling beams, but besides that, the cottage was a one-room communal living space.

I took a long, appreciative sniff of the wonderful aroma of honey and rosewater that permeated the whole house. It was really too late to be cooking, but maybe Audhumbhla had felt that sweet cakes would help to replenish her son's spirits after the horrors of the day.

And never mind Wiglaf—**my** spirits could certainly use replenishing.

About half the boys managed to squeeze onto the wooden bench running along the wall opposite the hill; the rest of them wound up on little footstools or just squatted on the dirt floor. Eventually Audhumbhla sat me down on the family's wardrobe chest beside the hearth. That put me right next to her husband Ingemer.

Ingemer was an old man, or at least he seemed pretty elderly. His hair was sparse and white, his cheeks thin and sunken, and his eyes had faded to the pale icy blue of a mountain stream. I'd never met him before, so it was hard to figure out what to say to the man. Mostly I just tried not to stare—because you see, Wiglaf's Dad has no legs. He was propped up by the fireplace in a little padded cart that he could push around with his hands.

It turned out that I didn't need to figure out something to say, because as soon as I sat down Ingemer started to shoot questions at me. I guess you have to expect that from a man who's stuck at home most of the time. I had to be careful about my answers, because most of his questions were kind of tricky, politics-wise.

"How did the King seem tonight? Has he regained his health?"

"What of Marshall Éomer? Has he not returned yet to Edoras?"

"Why did your kinsman come to Rohan? Did he really bring an Elf and a Dwarf with him?"

"Uh…by kinsman, do you mean Lord Aragorn???"

No matter how much I protested, all of the Rohirrim insisted in believing that Aragorn and I were relatives. He'd gone to such trouble, after all, to save me. To the people of Rohan, blood isn't the most important thing, it's the only thing.

The question that I couldn't answer at all was the one that Ingemer the fletcher probably considered most important:

"How does the Elf make his arrows?"

I couldn't begin to reply to that one. I'd been scared out of my wits all night—it had never even occurred to me to look at Legolas' arrows! I'd barely even looked at Legolas!

My seat on the wardrobe chest quickly became pretty uncomfortable—partly because of Ingemer's third degree and partly because I was so close to the fire that my cheeks began to toast. As soon as I could decently excuse myself, I sidled over to the pantry to help Audhumbhla serve honeycakes and beer to the kids. Yes, in Rohan even young boys are allowed to drink beer. Rohan homebrew is a bit stronger than what we have back home, so I was relieved to see that she made each of the little ones share a mug with a big boy.

The pantry was basically a hole that had been cut into the hill and plastered over so that vermin couldn't get into the family's stored food. Audhumbhla and I stood behind the crockery island that separated the pantry from the house and passed out cakes and mugs in what felt like a never-ending stream to the famished hordes.

After the fear and stress I'd put them through, my kids deserved a party. They deserved to stay up late wasting good tallow candles, to gobble honey cakes until they burst, and even to drink a little more beer than was good for them—just as their fathers were doing up in Meduseld.

With all twelve of them talking at once, the noise level was pretty high. Every one of them had his own version of how Lord Aragorn had defended me at my trial. Through the din, I managed to hear Haleth say that Aragorn had specifically chosen him and the boys to perform that "bring out the dead" trick. Finally Wiglaf stood up and proudly summed up the entire evening in one breath: "Lord Aragorn saved our Barbarella, Momma! And we all helped!"

_Our Barbarella._

You know what? When I heard Wiglaf say that, I knew it was the truth. I was a foreigner in Rohan and I didn't really belong anywhere in Middle-earth—but these were my kids now. I could no more bug out on them in the middle of a war than I could desert Princess Éowyn, my protector and my friend. Very soon, it would be my duty to face Saruman's orcs in the Battle of Helm's Deep—and I was not sorry that I would be sharing that fight with them.

What's the old proverb? Eat, drink, and be merry? Whoever thought it up, it's an excellent idea. I brushed off a nearly clean plate that I found on the sideboard, filled it up with honeycakes and Strawberry Newtons, and scarfed down every one.

After awhile, as you'd expect from a bunch of young Rohirrim, the boys started to sing. I was really amazed at how many songs Haleth knew about horses and riders. Meanwhile, back in the pantry, Audhumbhla and I were chatting about her family while we cleaned up. I found out that Wiglaf had six older sisters and was related by blood or marriage to all of the rest of my kids—except for Drogo, whose parents had recently immigrated from East Emnet. Ingemer had been one of Théoden's own Riders until his horse rolled on him and splintered his legs. Now he made arrows for the King's éored and Audhumbhla baked cookies and cakes for the King's household.

Just like Ingemer, his wife wound up lobbing some tricky questions at me. She waited until the kids were singing in harmony about a golden horse on a white hill and then asked quietly, "Did Lord Aragorn say whether he thought there would be war?"

I couldn't see any point in kidding her. "He didn't tell me in so many words, but I'm sure he does. It looks like it will be Helm's Deep for us soon."

Audhumbhla sighed and wiped her eyes on her dishtowel. "Not again. This will be so hard for Ingemer and my little son."

I asked her whether she'd been evacuated to Helm's Deep before. Twice, she told me. Once they spent all winter in the caves below the Keep and had to eat half of the seed saved for the spring planting.

That really sounded vile. I was at least able to assure her that I didn't think we'd be stuck there for very long this time.

I couldn't help but worry about how Audhumbhla was going to get her family and their supplies to Helm's Deep. How could she possibly prepare for the trip all by herself—let alone push Ingemer all that distance?

And then it struck to me—I had twelve boys right there with me in the fletcher's house who had lots of housekeeping experience.

I'm proud to say that not one of those kids complained when I asked them to turn their victory celebration into another Barbarella work project. Setting down their cookies and mugs without a word of protest, they immediately began the laborious process of readying Ingemer's equipment for transport. It wasn't as easy as I'd thought—you couldn't just dump Ingemer's fletching tools, feathers and wooden wands into a barrel. Every piece had to be wrapped and loaded just so. Wiglaf, of course, had been instructed in the fletcher's trade by his father since he was a toddler, so this time it was the little kid who got to tell the big boys what to do.

While the boys bagged up Ingemer's equipment, Audhumbhla and I sorted out all the portable foodstuffs in her pantry (primarily rolled oats, lard balls, dried fruit and nuts) and put everything in small containers so that the food could be easily transported and ditched in segments if the family needed to lighten their load. Audhumbhla was also packing extra wool padding and blankets for Ingemer's cart. I asked her whether she wanted my kids' help during the actual move and she said no, that's what daughters were for.

When the eastern sky began to lighten the boys slipped away one by one for their morning chores, until only Wiglaf and his best buddy Wilibald remained to wash and put away the dishes. Wiping her hands on her apron, Audhumbhla told me, "I'll put these two to bed. Go now and get some sleep in your own bed."

*************


	8. The Long Run

**Usual disclaimers and thanks: **nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Here are three of my own favorite 'Girl Falls into Middle-earth' stories. What they all have in common is a heroine who doesn't take J.R.R. Tolkien's word for what she ought to do:

The politically-conscious** Serpent in Paradise **(and unfinished sequel) by AEMI

The Boromir romance** Changing History **(and unfinished sequel) by AzaldiaTook

The horror story **Mary Mordor Sue** by Meg Thornton – "Y'know, I didn't choose to be evil."

**Section 08 The Long Run**

There are very few fat people in Edoras, and one good reason for that is the hill that Meduseld is built upon. It's something that you notice a whole lot more when you're walking uphill. From the commoners' cottages to the outbuildings of the Golden Hall, it's about three miles via the horse path—one mile if you're climbing the steps.

By the time I wheezed past the inner gates of Edoras there was light and color in the eastern sky, although it was still pretty dark at ground level. Downslope, the village was almost completely obscured by a pale morning mist, and a single bird was breaking the quiet with a shrill 'hoop, hoop.' I was still no naturalist, so I had no idea what kind of bird it might be.

In the early light of dawn, I saw that the great doors of the King's stable were swinging open. Somebody was riding out on one of the white Mearas. I quickly dodged out of the way so I wouldn't get trampled. On the whole, the warhorses of Rohan are very disciplined—but sometimes the horsemen don't pay as much attention as they ought to.

It was Gandalf! And he wasn't Gandalf the Grey any more—his clothing was so pure white and brilliant that he practically glowed. The sight was so totally amazing that for an instant I just stood there and stared at him.

But no! I couldn't let Gandalf ride off before I had a chance to talk to him. I sprinted forward to reach him before he could get away, discarding my earlier trepidation. A Wizard wouldn't let his horse run me down—would he?

"Wait! Wait! Gandalf—wait! I need your help!"

Snorting in disapproval, the Wizard's gigantic stallion skidded to a stop about two feet in front of me. Mounted on that big white horse, Gandalf was so tall and imposing that I felt more like a munchkin than ever. And weird as it sounds, his face seemed to shine when he leaned down to peer at me. "Barbarella, daughter of Naomi, I cannot tarry. On this day I ride to the Fords of Isen to summon Erkenbrand, Marshall of the Westfold."

"But I'm not asking for much of your time—I just need the answer to a question!"

Influenced, perhaps, by the desperation in my voice, Gandalf dismounted—and I realized that he'd been controlling his mount without any gear at all. No bridle, no reins, no bit—there was nothing on the stallion but a saddle blanket. Now there was a Wizard for you!

"The answer to a question," he echoed, in a sonorous voice that made my own words sound like a Shakespearean soliloquy. "I find that I too have a question. When I came here to the Golden Hall, what I discovered in Meduseld was not precisely what I had expected to see. Can you tell me the reason for that, Barbarella?"

I don't think anybody else in Rohan would have understood what Gandalf was talking about—but I did. He must have known all along what Saruman had been doing, so he'd probably expected to find King Théoden babbling in a straitjacket and Gríma Wormtongue taking over in his place. But what could I say to him? I knew what it was that I'd done, but I really had no explanation for what had happened. "Not really, no. Except for Gríma, of course."

"Yes. Except for Gríma."

When Gandalf spoke Gríma's name, his voice was so solemn and deliberate that it gave me the cold chills. I couldn't bear to meet Gandalf's eyes—I was afraid he'd look right into me and see that I'd planned a premeditated murder. Gandalf was a great Wizard whose friends were the noblest heroes of Middle-earth; I was just a spanner in the works, as common as dirt. The only lady that I resembled was Lady MacBeth.

My throat closed up as if Gríma was squeezing it again. For the first time in my life I felt like I was having an asthma attack. Struggling to breathe, I gasped, "ih, ih, ih," and rocked back and forth. It was weird and scary—I really felt like I was fighting for my life. Was I going to die?

Just before I spun into a total panic and shook myself to pieces, Gandalf held out his arms and pulled me into a gentle hug. The great Wizard was so much taller than me that the crown of my head fit easily underneath his chin, and the end of his beard tickled my nose. "Shhh, shhh, Barbarella, it's all right."

His arms were a true refuge—it was like being snuggled by my grandfather when I was just a kid. In this crazy, terrible, wonderful world that had been my mother's favorite fantasy and was now my own unbelievable reality, I was being comforted by Gandalf the White.

After a while I discovered that my throat had unswollen and that I could breathe again. "I had to do it, Gandalf—I had to do it!" I heard myself babbling into what seemed like a million folds of shantung silk. I felt like a doofus, but at least I hadn't started to cry again.

Gandalf stroked my neck and my shoulders until I calmed down. "To slay in anger is wrong, but I believe that your act sprang from a sense of duty and from your desire to save the people that you love. If that is not right, then nothing is. Even a Wizard cannot foresee all, but it is in my heart that your sense of duty may affect the lives of more people than you can know."

I sighed and swayed back until I stood on my own two feet looking up at him. "For the good, I hope."

"Ah, that is what we always hope," Gandalf said with a wry smile. "I must leave now, Barbarella. Ask your question."

There were so many questions that I could have asked, that I longed to know the answers to. How did I get here? Who brought me? Is there any way for me to go home? But by the weight of a pebble, one question mattered the most. I had to know whether what I had said to Théodred was the truth.

One more time, I pulled out my silver necklace and held the jewel where Gandalf could see it. "Does my Evenstar bear the magic of the Elves?"

Gandalf eyed my poor pendant as if it had just popped out of a gumball machine. "Your Evenstar? Is that what you call it?

"What else would you call it?" I countered. "Lord Aragorn told me how much it resembles Arwen's necklace. If my necklace isn't magical then nothing makes sense. The first time I ever wore it I was mysteriously transported here into Rohan. You're a Wizard—you of all people must know that I don't belong here in your world. I must have been brought here for some magical purpose."

Gandalf shook his head wisely as if all this made perfect sense to him. He seemed to choose his words carefully as he replied, "In the first place, I can assure you that you do belong here. And in the second place, I cannot tell you the purpose or the nature of the jewel you bear, but I can tell you one thing—it was fashioned nowhere in Middle-earth. I am sorry, but I can say no more."

What kind of a Wizard's answer was that? I was just opening my mouth to argue when Gandalf gave me a solemn nod and remounted. "I go now to summon Marshall Erkenbrand. Look for me at Helm's Deep at the dawn of the fifth day." He pressed one knee into the side of his horse and the stallion bounded forward, the Wizard bending low over the horse's neck. There was one final flourish of a white horsetail and they were gone.

As I watched them disappear in the morning mist, I realized that after hearing Gandalf's answer I knew even less than I had before. Now there was a Wizard for you.

I'd always assumed that I'd been teleported to Rohan for some Middle-earthian reason tied up with the War of the Ring. But according to Gandalf, my Mystery Magician was from somewhere else entirely.

Unfortunately, this opened up the list of suspects to include any magic-user ever imagined—in other words, the entire realm of fantasy. To judge from all the books on my mother's shelves, that was a very large realm indeed.

Perhaps my conjurer perp was Merlin! Hey, weren't he and Tolkien both English?

And how about Voldemort? Nobody but Rowling knew what he'd be up to in the last couple of books.

For all I knew, my kidnapper could even be Q, from the Q Continuum. There was a certain stupid practical joke aspect to the situation that matched up pretty well with the M.O. of Picard's idiot nemesis.

Bite your tongue, Barbarella, you're getting silly.

And silly was definitely the word for it. I had plenty of real life problems that required my immediate attention—there was no time to squander on pointless literary criticism. It was still barely dawn. If I hurried, I might make it back to Éowyn's chamber and get in some sack time before she woke up.

*************

"Five more minutes, Mom," I mumbled, throwing one arm over my eyes.

Somebody was shaking my shoulder so hard that my teeth rattled, and I suddenly realized that I wasn't snoozing on the daybed in my Mom's spare room. I was lying in Princess Éowyn's bed in Meduseld, and the canopy curtains had been pulled wide open to let in the loathsome sun.

"Wake up, Barbarella! You must get up right now! I've already let you sleep as long as I dared."

I sat bolt upright just as a heavy object was tossed onto the bed right beside my feet. "What's going on?"

Éowyn was dressed in leather armor that I'd never seen before—a shiny gray hauberk that was embossed with a tree pattern and closed with silver frogs. The high collar and upper sleeves on her black wool tunic were white leather, and from elbow to wrist her arms glittered with leaf-shaped silvery mail.

"Théoden King has commanded that all of Edoras must empty," Éowyn told me. "We leave at once for Helm's Deep, and we are to take only what we need to live. I am entrusting you with the King's records. You are a scholar—you understand the importance of state documents."

Swinging my feet onto the floor, I scrunched them into my slippers. It turned out that the dead weight that had nearly crushed my toes was a leather carry-drum about the size of a jumbo shopping bag. I reached out to pick it up. Oof—it was crammed full of books and papers, and it was really heavy.

Princess Éowyn had it right—there was nobody in Rohan who knew more about lugging overpacked book bags than Barb Sanderson, grad student.

"How much time do I have?" I was pulling on the heaviest woolen gown that I had. It was thirty miles through the mountains to Helm's Deep, so we'd be sleeping on the ground for at least one night.

"Even now the people of Edoras are assembling in the courtyard. Go down as quickly as you can."

Éowyn was readying herself for war as she spoke, buckling on a sword and scabbard that I'd last seen in Prince Théodred's rooms. It made her look a lot like Xena, Warrior Princess. "You weren't with us when the Wizard Gandalf and Lord Aragorn gave counsel to my uncle last night. Gandalf advised Théoden King to ride out and meet Saruman's orcs head on. This also was what Lord Aragorn counseled, and he promised that he would ride out alongside the Rohirrim. But I told my uncle that the Hornburg had been readied for our people, and I said to him that the Riders would be able to fight without hindrance once their families were safe within the Keep."

"So what happened?" I splashed my face with stale water from the pewter pitcher beside the bed and gave my hair a quick swipe with my wooden comb. Yuch! My hair was greasy and stank of torch smoke. Grabbing a muslin kerchief, I tied it over my head and forgot all about it. Who worries about hair when they're running for their lives?

"Oh, Barbarella—Théoden King listened to **me**!! He gave me his thanks, and he said that I was a true daughter of Eorl." At that moment Éowyn was a proud Warrior Princess indeed. Her eyes shone as brightly as a steel sword. Then she deflated and started to worry again. "But what if I was wrong? I may have ruined all!"

"Am I missing something? I thought that's what the Hornburg was built for—to protect the Rohirrim in times of great danger. You told Théoden what he needed to hear. I think we can trust him to know how to defend his own people."

Picking up her grey wool cloak with the rabbit-fur edging, Éowyn watched silently as I rolled Prince Théodred's buckles and clasps into a leather pouch. She accepted the pouch without comment, then asked, "Do you think Lord Aragorn will forgive me for opposing his judgement?"

Naturally she'd ask me, since Aragorn and I were such buds. "Lord Aragorn will get over it. He's no hothead—unlike some people."

Éowyn didn't comment on that, but of course we both knew someone who was—his name started with 'E' and ended with 'mer.'

"By the way," I asked after a decent pause, "has anyone tracked down your brother and his men yet?"

"The King has sent messengers to the Westfold to find him. He is supposed to meet us at Helm's Deep, since his éored cannot ride here in time to travel with us."

Princess Éowyn's serious look grew even more serious as she pulled a short scabbard from her belt. I recognized its chased-leather sun symbols instantly—they were used to identify a possession of the Royal House of Rohan. "Last night Théoden King gave Prince Théodred's dagger into my hands and told me to do with it as I thought best. I choose to give it to you. You must take it and use it if you need to."

It was Toothpick, of course. I didn't know how to reply—what could I possibly say that wouldn't bring up feelings that neither of us had the time or the heart for? Éowyn placed the sheath and dagger into my hands and left the room without another word. I don't believe that there was anything that she dared to say either.

This was certainly not the keepsake of Théodred that I would have chosen. Remembering what I'd done to Gríma would always taint it as a memento of the Prince. And above all, I didn't want to believe that I'd ever need to use that blade again.

But of course, whether that would be true wasn't up to me.

Since I was working under the gun, my packing was hurried and sketchy. The King's records were what really mattered, so I repacked and balanced the carry-drum, cobbling together a longer strap from one of Éowyn's belts so that it could ride on my back more easily. Prince Théodred's dagger could hang from my belt, and I could put my own stuff into a stringbag and sling it over my shoulder like a purse. As usual, my Evenstar pendant was dangling on my neck out of sight. Following Éowyn's orders, I packed only the 'bare necessities'—a waterskin and trail food, clean underwear and socks, a leather mug, a wooden spoon and bowl, a couple of candles, my vesper box—and my blue velvet dress.

So shoot me. Of course my evening dress wasn't a necessity—but I still wanted to keep it. It was one of the very few things I still possessed that had come from back home.

*************

By the time I reached the main courtyard it was midmorning and the first wave of refugees was already heading out onto the western plains. A lot of folks seemed pretty scared, while others had seen it all before and were taking it as the same old, same old. "Now don't you go and forget the seed corn this time, Farold," I heard one old woman admonish her glum husband. At the outset at least, the little kids were bouncing with excitement about their great adventure. And as for me—well, I'd been expecting this particular shoe to drop for three months. I could only hope that Éowyn was right, and that Éomer's éored would be waiting for us at Helm's Deep—and that Gandalf could find Marshall Erkenbrand in time.

Our exodus was composed of about three or four thousand people on foot—women, kids, old folks—and maybe fifteen hundred mounted warriors. That wouldn't be near enough Riders, if Saruman had as many orcs as I thought he did. More than ever before, I wished that I'd made Mom happy and read those three books. It would be really nice to know for sure what we had to expect.

As we passed the main gates of Edoras, our refugee march had the basic structure of a sheep flock. We were moving in an undisciplined mob with the Riders pushing us forward in a straggly line as if they were collies. I did my best to keep up a steady pace even though I was lugging all those books on my back and a heavy stringbag slung over one shoulder. I didn't dare let myself get too winded. There wasn't anybody else in the line who'd be able to pick me up and carry me if I collapsed.

This was the farthest I'd ever been from Edoras since the day that Háma found me wandering in the Westfold. The Riders were leading us more or less due west over drygrass prairie, but fortunately there was plenty of mountain runoff that time of year so you got a lot of little streams surrounded by green grass and tender spring flowers. That would be great for the horses—and of course good for us humans too.

Naturally I was keeping an eye out for all my kids. I spotted the older boys pretty early on—as usual, they were up to their eyebrows in work. Elric and Fréalof, our stableboys, had talked Haleth and the others into helping with the little foals that had just been born that winter. The youngest were still being nursed by their mothers, but a lot of mares had been returned to service as the warhorses of Théoden's éored. The weanlings would have to be watched every step of the way or they'd never make it to Helm's Deep.

As for my littles, Wilibald and Drogo were marching with Wiglaf's family and were helping to carry Ingemer's wands and fletchings. Ingemer himself and his cart were being pushed by a couple of young women about my age—his daughters, no doubt. There were two little children clutching the skirts of one of the young women. It was amazing—she looked younger than me and already she had five-year-olds!

Every now and again Théoden King would ride among us to survey the crowd and to give us a few encouraging words. When I saw Éowyn and Aragorn riding alongside him, I realized that someone had given Théodred's warhorse to Aragorn. For a moment there was a hard lump stuck in my throat, although I had no doubt that Théodred would have wanted Brego to be ridden into battle that way.

About midday, Legolas the Elf cantered up to me with his friend Gimli mounted behind him. That was something of a surprise—I knew that we only had enough horses for the warriors, but certainly Gimli qualified as one.

Gimli looked down at me (for a change) and shouted, "Are you carrying the whole library of Rohan on your back, lassie?"

"Just the King's records," I shouted up at him.

Legolas frowned almost imperceptibly. "They seem a heavy burden for a young woman like yourself. Do you want help in carrying them?"

There were plenty of young women on this march who were handling heavier burdens than mine. It looked like Legolas was actually seeing me as a lady who deserved special treatment. It was a kind offer, and for a moment I did feel tempted—but the two of them were warriors. At the first sign of trouble they'd have to ditch the King's records and ride off to fight orcs.

Rebalancing the bulky carry-drum on my back, I concealed my regret and said, "No, it's my responsibility. I can handle it."

"As you wish," Legolas said dispassionately, and tapped his mount gently with his knee. As they moved off I saw that he wasn't using riding tack any more than Gandalf had. These superheroes! No matter how long I practice I'll never get that good.

*************


	9. Blaze of Glory

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Once again, thanks to all my reviewers. ElvenSailorGirl sent me a really **long** review! Cool!

Events in this story are starting to change from what you remember, not just because of Barbarella, but because of the absence of Gríma. Wormtongue may have seemed insignificant, but he still had a part to play.

**Section 9 Blaze of Glory**

It was midafternoon when the order came down to halt. At first I thought it was too early, but then I remembered from my ski weekends in Colorado how fast the sun goes down in the mountains. And of course the old folks and the children could hardly march from dawn to dusk. As the rest of us tottered to a stop, about a hundred black-hauberked footmen moved forward through our ranks, carrying leather kite shields and long spears. I suppose it makes sense that the infantry would bring up the rear while the cavalry rode in the vanguard. Unlike the rest of us, the footmen still seemed pretty fresh—or at least they were good at pretending to be fresh.

Unfortunately, most of them were Northern Cousins. I really didn't want to confront Gríma's kinsmen, so I turned my face away from them as they passed. But even with a kerchief over my red hair, it looked like they'd all recognized me and were glowering in my direction. I guess as far as they were concerned, Aragorn had gotten me off on a technicality.

As I peered off into the west, I saw that maybe a mile ahead we'd be moving between the mountains into a wide green river valley. Another good reason to stop now—I certainly wouldn't want to lie down and sleep in a valley where anything could swoop down onto us from the heights to the north and the south.

Everybody was flopping down their packs right where they'd stopped. Some folks were gathering grass and twigs to start little campfires while the rest just squatted down, wrapped themselves up in their cloaks, and dozed. I would have preferred to be part of Group Two, but I figured I needed to do some chores for Princess Éowyn before I could lie down myself.

I'd been running on adrenaline ever since Théodred had been struck down, but after lugging that heavy carry-drum all day I was pretty much beat. It was humiliating to see grannies and little toddlers who had more energy than me. At that point I would have traded everything I owned for a Starbucks Grande Espresso.

Now that was actually an idea.

I threaded my way through clots of exhausted refugees until I found the campsite of Guthrun the healer. She'd been assigned a tiny perky-eared pony to carry her supplies, which shows you where healers stood in the pecking order of this evacuation. Théoden King and Princess Éowyn both knew that every scrap of medicine that she could bring would be put to good use later on.

Guthrun was a little surprised when I asked her if she had any herbs that could be used for a pick-me-up, but she handed me a copper kettle and a muslin packet that smelled more like Celestial Seasonings than serious caffeine. I thanked her in a loud clear voice and went off to find Princess Éowyn.

Éowyn was perched on a granite boulder on a little rise overlooking a snow stream, and Lord Aragorn was sitting alongside her smoking a long, Mammy Yokum-style pipe. I set down my carry-drum and stringbag next to a bedroll and a pile of blankets that had mysteriously appeared at the Princess's campsite. As always, Rank Has Its Privileges. Then I went off to hack at a nearby shrub. The pile of cattails heaped next to their tiny campfire would last about as long as a sparkler.

When I got back, the two of them were so deep in discussion that they hardly noticed me.

"It is my right and my duty to fight to protect my people, Lord Aragorn."

"Your people need you alive, not dead at the hands of an orc."

"Would not your people say the same to you?"

"I am a Ranger. To fight the Enemy is my destiny."

"And I am a shieldmaiden of Rohan."

At that point Aragorn was smart enough to give up on the argument. "I can see, however, that your armor does not bear the emblem of Rohan. Is not the White Tree a symbol of Gondor?"

Now that could be a bit embarrassing to a proud princess of the house of Eorl. After a little pause, Éowyn said, "My grandmother was a lady of Gondor. Her armor passed to me, since I was her only granddaughter."

Well! If Éowyn was going to tell Aragorn some family stories, I wanted to hear them too. I dragged my bush over to the fire and tossed in a few branches, put Guthrun's kettle in the coals to heat, then crouched down to listen.

Aragorn was still puffing away at that pipe of his. Now we all know that pipes are just as bad as cigarettes, but to tell you the truth, I've always enjoyed the aroma of a good pipe tobacco. Aragorn's was particularly nice—it smelled like Halloween pumpkins and oak bonfires and allspice.

"Lady Morwen of Gondor? Yes, I remember her. I met her many years ago when I rode out to war with her husband, King Thengel. She was a brave woman."

Hearing that, Éowyn had to struggle not to reveal her shock. "Then you must be at least sixty…seventy? Surely you can't be eighty!"

"Eighty-seven."

It was as if a fairy tale had sprung to life right in front of Éowyn's eyes. "Then you are one of the Dúnedain, the descendants of Numenor blessed with long life. It was said that your race had passed into legend."

Aragorn sighed softly. "There are few of us left. The Northern Kingdom was destroyed long ago."

That sorrowful look of his instantly brought out Éowyn's nurturing instinct, and she cast about for some way to comfort him. Good luck finding that in a campsite that consisted of nothing but a fire and some blankets. "Barbarella, the only food I have here is biscuits and dry meat. Can't you find anything better for Lord Aragorn to eat? Something hot, at least?"

By golly, that was an order that I was prepared for. Opening up my stringbag, I filled my wooden bowl with a man-sized serving of the trail mix I'd put together in Edoras. The water in the copper kettle took only a minute or two more to boil, and when it did, I poured half into Aragorn's bowl. The other half went into my own leather mug over Guthrun's herbs, which smelled a lot like marigolds. Leaving the herbs to steep, I presented Aragorn with the bowl and a spoon.

Aragorn sniffed the rising steam. "What is this?"

"It's granola. I always take granola when I go hiking in the mountains," I explained. "I make it from rolled oats, dried apples and berries, honey, nuts, and seeds."

"You have mountains in Penn's Woods?"

Unwilling to waste time explaining the different mountain topologies of my two home states, Colorado and Pennsylvania, I simply said, "Yes."

Aragorn thoughtfully chewed a spoonful of my trail mix and finally pronounced, "Not bad. Very sweet, though."

"Barbarella has a terrible sweet tooth," Éowyn teased me. "She'd fight a bear for his honeycomb!"

"Oh, yeah? Well, I come by my sweet tooth honorably. It's part of my people's heritage," I said stiffly. "The town of Hershey is famous for the candy it produces."

"Candy?" Aragorn was hiding his smile, but I could see the chuckle in his eyes. "Your home town is renowned for its…candy??"

Éowyn broke out laughing, and then Aragorn laughed too. I suppose to a pair of lifelong warriors like them, a town of candymakers must have sounded ridiculous.

Ha. Hah, hah. All I can say is, better to rot your teeth than rot your lungs.

*************

The next morning we set out just as the sky grew pink in the direction of Edoras. As I'd anticipated the day before, we quickly left behind the open grassland and crossed into a high mountain valley that had a small, swift river running through it.

"Not much further now," the old-timers said. "It's no more than a single league until we reach the Hornburg."

Unfortunately, the single league they were talking about was straight uphill. As we began to hike upward, our already-labored pace slowed almost to a crawl. Eventually the prairie vegetation changed to tufts of high mountain grass and scrubby brush that clung to ancient weathered boulders, although occasionally I spotted early wildflowers and shockingly green meadow plants in hollows protected from the frigid wind. It kept getting colder all day, too–I think we wound up pretty close to timberline. In spite of the altitude, I found that I was able to keep going without too much puffing and panting—the weekends I'd spent skiing in the Colorado Rockies were really paying off.

As soon as we entered the mountain valley it was obvious that we were in a rotten tactical situation. To our left, we were hemmed in by the foothills of the White Mountains. To our right, a rocky cliffside dropped abruptly down to the river that we'd walked beside earlier, but which was now far beneath us. It would be so very easy for the orcs to pincer us between the hills and the cliff, then swoop down and drive us over the edge to our deaths. The only shield we had was the courage and the spears of the Riders of Rohan, and to a man, they all knew it. Grim-eyed and wary, they were surveying every inch of the hilly terrain as they rode ahead of us.

It was the little foals that gave us the first warning of danger. I heard a cacophony of high shrilling whinnies intermixed with boyish shouts, so I swerved over to where my older kids were struggling to help Elric and Fréalof calm down a string of panicky weanlings—or if they couldn't do that, at least keep them from bolting.

Then I, too, heard the noise that was making the colts cause such a commotion—an eerie howling from the hills to the south.

My first instinct was to look around and find somebody to tell us what to do—I didn't want to pull something stupid out of sheer ignorance. But everybody else was just as confused as I was. From the edge of our column a whole squadron of Rohirrim broke off to head south over the hills—only to be met at a hillcrest by a lone Rider who was galloping back in the opposite direction.

He was being chased by some creature with a Halloween face that was riding a mount with a gait completely unlike any horse I'd ever seen. Immediately, the group of Riders started to hack at it with their swords.

Stuck in the middle of an anxious crowd, I couldn't pick up much about the situation—but I could hear the sound of the Horn of Rohan from the south, and I saw more Rohirrim riding away from us into the nearby hills.

It was pretty clear that the enemy had found us. But had our men encountered a single orc scout or an entire company?

Then, just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they got worse. Waving her sword in the air, Princess Éowyn rode into the midst of our column and shouted, "People of Rohan! Saruman's warg riders have attacked us! The King and his men are riding off to meet them. As you love your lives, run now! Run to Helm's Deep with all your strength!" And she wheeled Windfola to gallop in pursuit of Théoden's éored.

This was horrible. My Princess was riding off to battle monsters—and there was nothing I could do to help her! Absolutely nothing. Even running away was going to demand everything I had.

Okay, it was time to pick up the pace. Taking a deep breath, I shucked off the stringbag that held my few personal possessions and dumped it to the ground. So much for my own stuff—I was carrying too much to run at top speed. Centering Éowyn's heavy carry-drum on my back, I headed west toward Helm's Deep just as fast as I thought I could run and keep on running.

Panicky refugees were darting and dashing on either side of me. Right in front of me, a weary old farmer with floppy, mismatched boots tripped and fell and got trampled by three people before he could get back on his feet. A few yards away, a terrified woman hauled up her screaming toddler and carried him like a sack of flour on one shoulder as she ran. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that my kids were hitting the colts with sticks to make them go faster.

One elephant…two elephants…three elephants…. I counted out in gasps. In about three minutes I knew that I had to slow down, no matter what was coming after us. In my panic, I'd started out at a pace that I couldn't possibly maintain. There was still no sight of the fortress of Helm's Deep through the gap between those horrible hills. What were we supposed to do now? Follow the river, that's what everybody had told me. And try not to fall over the cliff.

It didn't take long before everyone else was slowing down too and I was able to thread my way past most of the fleeing Rohirrim into the front of the line. I'm no superwoman, but I have done some mountain hiking—and what was more important, I was neither a little kid nor a senior citizen. Puff, puff, puff—keep your eyes open, don't trip over a rock or snap your ankle in a gopher hole—where was Helm's Deep? Why weren't we there? The Riders had all ridden off to battle the orcs and left us panicky civilians to fend for ourselves as best we could.

I was tramping along half-dazed and oblivious, praying that we'd start heading downhill soon, when without warning, something thin and black zipped through the air right beside me. Passing so close to me that I felt a rush of wind on my cheek, it buzzed like a giant wasp and landed with a loud 'thunk!'

What could that be???

Before I could figure out what it was, I heard somebody gasping, 'Uk uk uk" behind my back. I turned around and saw, as if in slow motion…

A fat old woman wearing a bloody shawl was clawing at a gigantic black arrow that had lodged in the middle of her throat. Arms thrashing, she toppled over voicelessly. Her feet drummed weakly on the ground, then stopped.

Several more of those monstrous zipping noises came right after the first. Frantically I threw myself face down on the muddy ground, squirming to make myself very, very flat and very, very inconspicuous. All around me old folks and kids were screaming and running like crazy people, or else dropping down to hide like I was. I shimmied into a little hollow in the ground and flopped Éowyn's carry-drum in front of me. All that I could think of was that it was made of leather and stuffed with paper—it ought to provide some protection. At least until the orcs closed in and started to hack at us at close range.

In spite of my terror, my mind kept clicking along and came up with some unpleasant deductions.

We'd walked into an ambush. The warg riders had drawn off our Riders and turned the rest of us into sitting ducks. How many archers did Saruman have stationed out there, anyway? Twenty? Forty? Eighty?

I yanked Toothpick out of its sheath, but I had absolutely no idea how to use it against an orc.

Just when things seemed completely hopeless I heard an unfamiliar battle yell being chanted by many throats: "Hoo-yah! HOO-yah! HOO-YAH! **HOO-YAH**!!!!"

I knew at once that it couldn't be orcs—the shout was coming from behind me.

It was the Northern Cousins!

Soon there were maybe a hundred footmen marching past us—jogging, really—in a tight military order about five abreast. Each of them held his long deadly spear in one hand and a tall kite shield in the other. At every other step they shouted out another lusty 'HOO-YAH!"

It was terrible and wonderful all at once. The Cousins were charging right into a volley of arrows! Breathing through clenched teeth, I looked out wide-eyed from behind the carry-drum. The footmen's leather shields were able to block some of the whizzing arrows, but men were hit by every volley and nearly somersaulted back by the sheer force of impact. Every time a man fell, one of his comrades moved up to close the ranks.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing with my own eyes. How much further would those men have to go against that rain of arrows? How much further could they bear to go? How could any man nerve himself up to march into arrow fire with nothing to protect him but a leather shield?

Then, right in front of our footmen, something gray and scrawny bounced out of a hidden foxhole and tried to lope away. It was an orc—the thin gobliny Moria kind, not a big beefy Uruk-Hai like the one that killed Boromir. The Cousins fell on him instantly and spiked him with one—two—three—many spears.

There was another volley of arrows after that, and I saw more men getting hit. I began to hear screams of pain—some were agonized shrieks, others just dying-away moans. Ahead of me I heard a shrill gibbering that sounded like nothing human.

So this was War. I was really in a war.

My arms and legs were frozen in place–I couldn't seem to shove myself out of my little hollow. I knew that I ought to do something to help the wounded, and I kept telling myself, "Get up! Get up! What kind of coward are you?" But all that I could do was curl into a ball and try to stop shivering.

It felt like the battle was taking forever, but the whole thing was probably over in minutes. Finally I heard hoarse voices shouting in accented Rohirric, "Move your butts, people! Don't make us come back and drag you!"

Staggering to my feet, I swallowed the gigantic lump in my throat and hauled the carry-drum onto my back once again. It was heavier than ever—much, much heavier—but there was no one who could carry it but me and after all this, there was no way in the world that I was going to leave it behind. I lurched forward as fast as I could in the midst of a group of equally shell-shocked women, children and old people.

As they marched ahead the Cousins were taking charge of their own wounded, but I'm afraid that we left many of their number sprawled motionless on the bloody ground. The rest of us were too scared to stop and do anything for the corpses of the men who had saved our lives. And as for the orcs—the Northern Cousins had minced them all into hamburger.

I think one of the bodies that I spotted was probably Baltar. At any rate, I didn't see him later at Helm's Deep—and I did look around for him, for more reasons than one. It was hard to be sure though—the corpse's face was covered with drying blood and its left eye socket had one of those horrible black orc arrows sticking out of it.

When the arrows finally stopped, all of us civilians were stunned and numb—it took maybe two minutes for the shock to wear off. And then we ran—ran as if the devils of hell were chasing after us.

Because they were.

But you know, adrenaline doesn't last forever. Even with the footmen yelling at us to leg it, we still started to slow down after a while, meanwhile trading nervous "hey, we're alive" glances as we tried to figure out how we were going to survive the remainder of the march.

The mothers of young children were the ones who had the worst problems. You can stuff a baby into a backpack, but what can you do with an exhausted five-year-old who refuses to move another step? My carry-drum was a cinch by comparison.

And we had wounded of our own, too. Catching the eye of a white-haired grandfather who was wobbling along with blood from a scalp wound streaming down his face, I pulled off my kerchief and tossed it over. I'd been wearing it for two days, but by then, the word 'sanitary' wasn't even in my vocabulary.

After a while I felt a little less pessimistic. Yes, the warg rider had been horrible, but creatures like that were no match for our own Riders. Besides, we probably outnumbered them. Saruman might have a vast army of thousands of orcs, but it stood to reason that he wouldn't have that many wargs. How could he support that many carnivores? Yes, I was positive—the Riders were going to win and Éowyn would surely be all right.

*************


	10. A Horrendous Change in the Plotline

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

I just took the "Universal Mary-Sue Litmus Test" and I am in the danger zone! But I feel okay with it--I enjoy messing with the clichés. Barbarella is an unusual name, but as one reader put it, "That poor girl." She's got red hair—which is normal where she winds up. Her ripoff Evenstar isn't much of a help, and another woman gets to wear most of the great outfits.

**Section 10 A Horrendous Change in the Plotline**

When we turned that last corner and spotted Helm's Deep I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Of course, a big part of that was the sheer relief of finally getting there after hours of weariness and terror. I wasn't the only one who felt that way, either. I can't tell you the number of people who broke down and cried with joy, shrieking, "Look! Look! It's the Hornburg! We're saved! We're saved!"

In fact, the place we were going wasn't really Helm's Deep—'Helm's Deep' is the name of the gorge that surrounds the great Keep that we were actually evacuating to: the Hornburg. The Hornburg itself is an ancient Romanesque fortress hewn from a variety of dark granite that I hadn't encountered once during my whole trek through the nearby hills. Weirdly enough, the view in front of us reminded me of those little panorama scenes inside a glass Easter egg, because massive though the renowned fortress was, it was miniscule compared to the gigantic peaks that loomed over it on three sides. I couldn't believe those incredible mountains—they shot into the sky practically straight up and down, and any one of them would have towered over Pike's Peak. I'd never seen anything like it—the whole thing resembled a moonscape.

At any rate, we'd finally made it to the Hornburg. All that was left for us to do was to zigzag down one last interminable hillside, wade through the sticky mud of the floodplain below, then march over what looked like the world's largest, hardest causeway. After that I could complete the mission that Princess Éowyn had assigned to me and deliver the King's records to a place of safety.

Sure, nothing to it.

I'd just set foot on the edge of the causeway that bridged the Deeping Stream when someone further back in line yelled out my name. It had to be one of my kids—that insistent "Barbarella! Bar-Barbarella!" was unmistakable.

When I stopped to see who it was, about half a dozen other refugees plowed right into me in their eagerness to reach the safety of the Hornburg. Elbowing the folks around me so they'd stop walking up my heels, I craned my neck around and spotted Alfwine, Elric and Fréalof, who were leading a trio of exhausted colts through the mud. Each colt had one or two drowsy toddlers clinging to its back like cockleburs.

So few? What about the rest of my kids? Where were they? Maybe they'd gotten separated somehow en route. Yeah, that was probably it. They'd just gotten separated. No need to worry.

Please, please, that had to be it.

The oldest of the three boys was Alfwine, son of Gamling, so of course he was the one in charge. Poor Alfwine looked terrible. His blond hair is nearly white, his complexion is really fair and he'd been out in the sun way, way too long. His whole face was sunburned to a deep, painful-looking salmon, his lips were puffy, and his blue eyes were bloodshot and pink. (I'm fair too, so I was probably a bit pink myself.) Except for being caked in gray mud up to their knees, Elric and Fréalof were somewhat better off. Since the two brothers were stableboys, they were used to being outside with the horses all day.

When the kids dragged their colts up to meet me, everyone moved aside to leave them plenty of space. You just don't crowd a horse that comes from the King's stables, even when it's a baby.

I grabbed each boy in turn to give him a big bear hug, most likely embarrassing them all mightily. Next, I quickly scanned the five toddlers on the colts. Half asleep, they were all drowsily sucking their thumbs or making little grunting noises. The experience didn't appear to have traumatized them.

"Are you kids okay? Where did the rest of the group go?" I demanded. "I lost track of you when it got so crazy back there."

"The foals panicked when the warg riders attacked—we couldn't keep them together," Fréalof told me breathlessly. Although only eleven, he was almost six feet tall—a baby-faced young giant. "We all wound up running in different directions."

"Some Westfold women made us put their babies up on our foals. But the foals are babies too, and they're nowhere near ready for saddle-pads, so we had to strap 'em on," Elric complained. Although he was the older of the two brothers, he was still a head shorter than Fréalof—and anxiously awaiting his growth spurt. But he was a Rider-in-training, through and through, so of course he always thought of the horses first.

Momentarily shifting his attention away from the colts, Elric peered up at me hopefully. "Do you have anything to eat, Barbarella?"

Good question. I'd ditched my trail mix somewhere on the trail, but when I dug around in my belt pouch I found a hard little chunk of waybread. Elric certainly deserved it. But when I offered it to him, he passed it over to Fréalof without hesitation. It figures—height or no height, Fréalof was Elric's little brother, and Elric was fiercely protective of him.

When I took a good look at Alfwine I started to get scared. He was so pale and dazed and clammy that I was afraid he might have gotten sunstroke. Finally Alfwine cleared his throat and said hesitantly, "The rest of us…the rest of us are already in the Keep and safe. Except for Haleth…Haleth heard his father's horn in the distance and went back to find him. And I—I didn't go with him!"

Oh, no—this was so much worse than sunstroke. Haleth was Alfwine's cousin and best friend—they'd been the next thing to brothers since they were the age of the toddlers on the colts. My heart lurched. All the way to Helm's Deep, poor Alfwine must have been ripping himself to pieces over leaving Haleth behind.

What Alfwine needed was a grownup to talk some sense into him, and he needed one bad. His father could have done this much better, but Gamling wasn't there. So the responsibility passed to me.

Ignoring all the people who were streaming on either side of us, I put my hands on Alfwine's shoulders and gazed straight into his teary eyes. "Yes, Alfwine, I know how terrible you feel. When Princess Éowyn rode off into battle, I could not go with her either. I don't know where she is now, any more than you know where Haleth is. But one thing I do know—we did not desert them. You and I were given tasks that must be carried out, and we both know that duty comes first."

'Duty comes first' is, of course, one of the prime mantras of the people of Rohan. All three boys straightened up proudly when I said that and I even think one or two of the toddlers may have clutched a bit harder at his colt's mane. Alfwine took a long, shuddery breath and swiped at his eyes with a filthy sleeve, then raised his chin and said with the stern intensity of a warrior of Rohan, "You speak truly, Barbarella. Let us go to carry out our duties, and we will both hope that Haleth and Princess Éowyn come to Helm's Deep very soon."

I knew then that Alfwine would be okay—I'd said what he needed to hear. Alfwine had only passed his thirteenth birthday six weeks earlier, but he'd have to be a man now. For better or for worse, there was no time left in Rohan for childhood.

So that's how I entered Helm's Deep—marching in front of Rohan's three youngest warriors.

*************

As soon as I passed the gates of the Hornburg, I found myself in the middle of a traffic jam—the first one I'd run into since I'd shown up in Middle-earth. A crowd of confused refugees was clogging up the narrow alleyways and little cul-de-sacs that surrounded the inner courtyard of the Burg, while Riders wearing Éomer's insignia moved amongst us, pushing and shoving us along like traffic cops. It looked like Éomer had finally arrived.

When I finally got a chance to pause and gawk at the gargantuan architecture around me, my first thought was, "Holy cow! Who built this place, anyway?" No way could it be my Rohirrim—they fashioned their buildings mostly from wood and cobblestones and cement. The great Burg had been constructed from giant slabs of precision-cut foreign granite—a structural cross between Stonehenge and the Pyramids. True, there was a big statue of Helm Hammerhand in the middle of the main courtyard, but it was obviously a much newer artifact sculpted from a lighter-colored rock.

I had no time, however, for archeological musing—there were still a lot of things that needed to be done. First, I sent off the three boys to find the stables, ordering Alfwine to track down the toddlers' mothers as soon as the colts were stowed away. There wasn't any point to asking them to deliver the toddlers first and the horses second—these were boys of Rohan, after all.

That left the King's records, and I had every intention of dealing with those myself.

Of course I had no idea where the King's records ought to go, so I shoved my way through to the Inner Court and hunted around until I found somebody I knew. The 'somebody' turned out to be Haldred, who'd been sent to Helm's Deep a day early as the King's War Messenger. He and I went way back. He'd been one of the Riders with Háma the day I was picked up and taken to Edoras, and later on, he'd been my jailer at the washhouse.

"Haldred! Haldred!" I yelled above the hubbub of the crowd.

"What is it now, Barbarella?" he yelled back exasperatedly. On the whole, Haldred's a pretty average Rider. He's a redhead like me, about my age, and maybe two-thirds as broadshouldered as Éomer, who's humongous. As far as I know, the poor guy's ambition in life was simply to be the best Rider that he could be and to make his King proud of him. I don't think that getting mixed up in all of my misadventures had made him a happy camper.

Haldred jerked his thumb toward a little alcove where we might be able to communicate at less than a full bellow. Once we'd both waded through the crowd to reach it, I said to him, "Princess Éowyn ordered me to bring the King's records to Helm's Deep. Where should they go?"

Haldred's brows knitted with the strain of cogitation. "I cannot say that I know the Hornburg well, but I do know that the Lord of the Westfold's chamber is being prepared for the King. Shall I take them there for you?"

Pulling the grubby carry-drum tight to my chest, I clutched it possessively. "Not on your life, Haldred! I brought this all the way to Helm's Deep and I'm not about to hand it over to anybody until I reach the place where it's supposed to go."

Of course this was Rohan-talk to the max, so Haldred knew exactly what I meant. He gave me a tiny nod of understanding and wove me through the throng of my refugee compatriots and around the side of the great Burg (that's the big tower inside the Hornburg) to the Guard Captain's stairs. The Lord of the Westfold's chamber is practically at the top floor of the Burg, which meant that I still had more climbing to do.

About halfway up I conked out and had to ask Haldred for a rest break. My aching calves had suddenly realized that I'd reached safety and they were absolutely unwilling to cooperate for one more step. Puffing and panting, I leaned weakly against the cold stone wall and tried to psych myself into going on. Haldred waited in seeming patience for a few moments and then demanded, "What happened out there? How were all of those villagers wounded? Did the orcs break through our line?"

I knew that Haldred wasn't going to like my answer, but I thought that he needed to hear the truth. "What happened was that Saruman sent out his warg riders to attack us and the King and his éored rode after them. The rest of us went on and got ambushed by a bunch of orc archers. If the Northern Cousins hadn't fought them we might have all have been slaughtered."

As I'd expected, this was something of a stunner for a Rider like Haldred. "The Northern Cousins? You mean the footmen?"

"Yes, I do—and we both know that most of the footmen are Northern Cousins. It was the Northern Cousins who saved us. A lot of them died saving us." Every one of those guys deserved every scrap of honor that I could give them. They all hated me, but so what? "It has always been Rohan's boast that all of its sons are brave. And that is what the Northern Cousins are—sons of Rohan."

I didn't want to push at Haldred's sense of fairness any more after that, so I shut up. And Haldred's no talker either, so we both climbed the rest of those high narrow stairs in silence. When we reached our destination, the warrior guarding the door waved us through and I was finally allowed to enter into the Westfold Lord's chamber under his watchful eye. It looked a lot like Théodred's rooms—only smaller and gloomier. And to add insult to injury, most of the room was filled by a three-step dais, so before I was done I had to climb still one more flight of stairs.

Reaching the Lord's canopy bed, I gently set down my battered carry-drum onto a wardrobe chest at its side and knew that I'd finished the task I'd been assigned. I wouldn't receive any applause or hear any horn calls, but I'd done what I was supposed to do.

Although Haldred and I had set out together on the trek upstairs, we parted company going down on the second floor right above the War Chamber. On the way up I'd spotted the kitchen—a high-ceilinged chamber that smelled of wood smoke and grease—and I figured that I should check on the supplies Princess Éowyn had sent off to the Hornburg right before Théodred died. We were really going to need those supplies—most of the refugees had been ditching stuff left and right as they fled, just like me.

When I got to the big cooking-hall, it was shadowy and deserted—every warrior left in the Hornburg must have already fanned out to man the Wall. By the dim light of a fire still smoldering in one fireplace, I spotted a stack of wooden barrels and piles of dingy sacks next to the stone ovens. Doing an eyeball inventory, I was relieved to verify that Éowyn's supplies had all arrived.

Without getting the King's permission, Éowyn hadn't dared to send away supplies that had been earmarked that winter for emergencies in Edoras. So we'd scavenged through the cellars and found edibles that were left over from the previous winter, and there they were. Twenty-five bushels each of oatmeal and dried peas, ten barrels of mingled suet, mincemeat and headcheese. In a word, yuck.

This would hardly be gourmet dining; it frankly looked more like MREs (Meals Rejected by Edoras). But it was better than nothing, and anyway I didn't think we needed to worry about a month-long siege. If Saruman was going to send overwhelming forces against us, those forces wouldn't have supplies enough for a long siege either. Which was lucky for our side, because even this nasty stuff wouldn't last very long, the way the Riders of Rohan chowed down.

So there I was, all alone in the cooking-hall of the Hornburg. Warmth, darkness, quiet. Yep, the kitchen was definitely a better place to sack out than the crowded courtyard downstairs. Sliding down on the stone floor next to a pile of sacks, I rested my head on a comfy bag of oatmeal and was out like a light within seconds.

************

I was woken by the sound of horns. There was no light coming through the arrowslits in the walls so I must have slept for quite a while. I touched the last candle in my belt pouch to an ember in the grate and rushed downstairs to see what was happening. Those horns had to mean that Théoden's Riders had arrived—they just had to!

As soon as I reached the Inner Court I heard joyous voices crying out, "The King! The King is here!" So I was right—Théoden and his men had arrived. As I cautiously threaded my way past clumps of occupied bedrolls, the Riders were filing into the Keep through the main gate. By the flickering light of torches, I anxiously scanned the horsemen for faces that I knew.

The first people I recognized were Haleth and his father Háma. Haleth didn't look like he was hurt—so all of my kids were okay! Háma, however, was lurching heavily to one side and seemed to need his son's help in order to dismount—which meant that he'd been wounded or was totally exhausted or both. Probably both. But at least he was alive and unmaimed, and so was Haleth.

The next familiar face, of course, was Théoden King himself. Well, no, it wasn't 'of course'. Everybody had been so worried that when the King rode into the courtyard it was an instant mob scene—his subjects were so relieved and overwhelmed to see him that they just had to race up and touch him. Now, as I've said before, clutching at a stallion like Snowmane is not a good idea—if the King hadn't been such a fantastic horseman, a lot of his well-wishers would have gotten squished then and there.

At long last, Princess Éowyn rode into the courtyard safe and well. To tell the truth, I felt pretty relieved and overwhelmed myself. But just as I was about to run up like a fool and grab at her, I saw that her brother Éomer was grimly striding alongside her horse and hassling her nonstop. I couldn't catch his words, but whatever he was saying was making Éowyn pretty mad. She swung off Windfola and ran off toward the Great Hall with Éomer right behind her, still haranguing.

I needed to stay out of that one. I was just a handmaiden, after all—not a blood relative. So, what was it this time? Probably the same old, same old: "You're my little sister and you could have gotten yourself hurt!" There wasn't a single man in Éowyn's life who didn't want to pick, pick, pick at her and shut her off in some sort of cage. For her own good, naturally. It's too bad Aragorn was engaged to Arwen—compared to all the other guys she knew, he seemed pretty liberated.

Then I caught sight of Legolas and Gimli, the other members of our Fellowship contingent. They were still sharing a single mount—Legolas was seated so gracefully that he looked like the other half of the horse, while Gimli was perched like a bump on a log. I could empathize with those two—they were strangers in Helm's Deep just like me.

I worked my way through the crowd to meet them and called out, "Hey guys! What took you so long? I got here hours ago and I was walking!"

As Gimli awkwardly clambered out of the saddle and Legolas effortlessly followed suit, I could tell from their numb expressions that something was terribly wrong.

And I also realized that somebody was missing.

"Where's Lord Aragorn?" I blurted out, scared.

"He…he fell, Lady." Gimli's face was a rockslide waiting to happen.

You've got to bring him into the Hornburg," I started to babble. "Our healers aren't Elves but they're better than…"

Gimli shook his head wearily. "I am sorry, Barbarella. Aragorn is dead."

No! No, that's impossible!" was my immediate, stupid response. "Aragorn's not supposed to die!"

"Men always die." That was Legolas speaking, and his voice was so cold and clear and utterly lacking in emotion that it was creepy. Without warning, he turned and slammed his left fist into a nearby stack of bracing timbers so hard that I almost expected the wood to give.

"Laddie, laddie…" Gimli seemed just as surprised as I was. He scurried over hastily until he was within arm's reach of his elven friend.

Legolas examined his battered knuckles as matter-of-factly as if nothing of any consequence had occurred. You couldn't tell from his distant smile whether he was going to laugh or cry. He continued with perfect equanimity, "But usually, not while I'm watching them."

What could you possibly say to something like that?

"Come along, Legolas," the Dwarf at his elbow counseled gruffly. "We'll have time enough to grieve later. Right now there are orcs to fight."

As Gimli touched his hand, life and awareness flowed back into the Elf's eyes. Without another word, Legolas followed his comrade into the Burg, leaving me all alone in a courtyard that suddenly seemed an alien and dangerous place.

But alien or no, if I didn't get out of the way of the milling crowd I was going to get trampled. So I picked a direction at random and started moving until I reached an empty spot under the Postern Gate. Then I sat down on the cold flagstones and freaked myself out.

Aragorn was dead—just like Théodred. It didn't make any sense. He was a great warrior, a hero of legend who actually had a head on his shoulders, and above all, he was the leader we needed to defeat the Enemy. How were we going to survive without him?

And besides that, if Aragorn could die, what did that mean for the rest of us? I'd always thought I was a hard-headed realist, but apparently I'd been counting on Tolkien's fantasy trilogy all along. Well, this was reality, Barbarella. There would be no Return of the King now.

I was terribly afraid that we'd locked ourselves into a deathtrap. Closing my eyes, I hugged my knees tightly together and rocked back and forth, imagining the worst. I spent the whole rest of the night like that, conjuring up horrific images to scare myself silly:

Orcs without number charging in waves toward Helm's Deep.

Saruman the white Wizard blowing up the Deeping Wall with lightning bolts, D&D-style.

Éomer riding out heroically in front of his Rohirrim and getting them all slaughtered.

I really did a job on myself with these 'dark imaginings.' I think at one point during the night I actually managed to convince myself that I'd heard the screech of a Ringwraith in the distance. But realistically, I'm sure that it was just an owl.

*************


	11. Captain Barbarella

**Usual disclaimers and thanks:** nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Thanks again to my reviewers. And don't forget—all of Barbarella's kids are non-canon (i.e., my own) characters. I hope that my readers will still care about what's going to happen to them...

**Section 11 Captain Barbarella**

By the time the sun came up over the walls of the Keep, I was rumpled, grainy-eyed from lack of sleep, and aching from a night spent squatting on stones. The terror of the night had died down into a mere desperate foreboding.

All around me, clumps of refugees were beginning to rouse from sleep. Although still exhausted from the long march, they looked pretty cheerful now that they were safe behind the walls of the Hornburg.

Safe. Yeah, sure.

I too was ensconced within the walls of the Hornburg, but I wasn't feeling very cheerful about it. And I had no idea what I was going to do next—except, of course, that I desperately wanted to find a bowl of oatmeal and a clean washcloth.

Just then there was a sharp whistle right overhead and I heard a boyish yell. "She's here! It's Barbarella! I've found Barbarella!"

When I looked up, I saw a whole row of grubby, disheveled boys staring down at me from the parapet at the top of the Postern Gate stairs. Six, eight, ten—yes, all twelve of my kids were there. Even Haleth!

All of them were alive, at least for the moment.

Descending the stairs in a few bounds, Haleth asked breathlessly, "Where have you been? We've been looking for you since dawn!" The rest of the kids followed him in a ragged line.

"We need your help, Barbarella. You're our only hope!" That was Alfwine, who seemed practically glued to Haleth's side.

"They want us to go and hide with the babies!" Elric complained in his habitual tone of snark.

"Please, you must tell Marshall Éomer that we should stay in the fortress," Haleth explained. "Théoden King has ordered all save the warriors to wait out the battle in the caverns beneath the mountains."

To a boy, every one of them was incensed at the thought of being sent to the only safety there was. What can I say—it's the way they think in Rohan.

"Come on, kids—why should someone like Éomer listen to me?" I protested weakly. "Who do you think I am, anyway?"

Haleth sneaked a surreptitious glance at his cousin Alfwine, who shot back a conspiratorial grin back at him. I knew then that I was in trouble.

"Because you are our Captain," Haleth answered smugly.

"Because I am your WHAT??!"

"No, really," Alfwine interjected. "It was Marshall Éomer himself who placed us under your authority and commanded us to obey your orders. Isn't that what being a Captain means?"

"Come on, Alfwine, you know that's not what he meant."

"No, I suppose it is not." Alfwine airily conceded the point and then disregarded it as irrelevant. That boy was going to make a great barracks lawyer one day. "But Éomer cannot simply gainsay his order and there is no time now for an argument. So I believe he will let us stay here with the warriors if you can think of a good reason for us to remain."

Twelve pairs of eyes stared at me pleadingly. Every one of my kids was bound and determined to escape the only protection their King could offer them so that he could risk his life in the Battle of Helm's Deep.

And the decision was all going to come down to me.

I thought hard for a few seconds and then replied, "Okay, I'm with you guys. Let's go for it!"

Surprised you there, didn't I? What, did you think I wanted to cower in a cave while I waited to find out which side had won the battle? Look, I'm no shieldmaiden, but I'd sworn to myself after I watched the Twin Towers fall that no matter what, I wasn't going to die sitting in a chair waiting for the rescue personnel to show up. If somebody wanted to kill me, they'd have to hit a moving target.

But if that was the choice that I'd make, then my kids—who'd been raised from infancy to stand up and face the enemy—would surely make it too. We might have started in different places, but we'd all reached the same decision.

What I needed to do was to figure out a worthwhile project that my kids and I could do aboveground, and even more important, a project that Éomer and Théoden would actually believe that we were capable of doing.

Believe it or not, as soon as I nailed down the parameters and considered the facts that I already knew, the solution was obvious. Score one for the trained academic mind.

"I've got it! It's perfect! We can be stretcher-bearers," I announced to my smudgy little army. "I love you kids, but let's face it, you're not ready to fight orcs yet. What we are able to do is what the warriors won't have time to do—we can carry the wounded men away from the battle into a place of safety."

One or two of my young warriors-in-training seemed a bit perturbed that I hadn't figured out a more spectacular way to get them all slaughtered. But Haleth, who'd seen up close and personal what I was talking about, said firmly, "Barbarella is right! There can be no greater honor for us than to help our fallen warriors!"

Every one of those kids knew exactly what Haleth had gone through to get his father to Helm's Deep, so any urge they might have had to protest was instantly stifled. Then Haleth yelled, "Hurrah for Barbarella!" and all of the rest of them followed suit—with cheers, or whoops, or yells of "Woo hoo!" or whatever.

That's why Haleth is such a primo sidekick—he always comes through in a pinch.

***********

If I'd had the tiniest notion of what I was letting myself in for, I would never have dared to volunteer. Not because of the risk—everybody within the walls of the Hornburg was facing a horrible risk. Because of the responsibility.

Think about it—we had maybe two days (if I was lucky) to pull together what amounted to a MASH unit right in the middle of a terrified mob of refugees. If my kids and I were going to have any chance at all of success, we needed at the very minimum a dedicated staging area, lots of stretchers and blankets, all the medical supplies I could scrape together, and the full cooperation of the healers from Meduseld. And we would have to scare this up all by ourselves. Théoden's warriors would be far too busy to spend a single minute overseeing us. We'd be on our own, and for good or ill, I'd be the one in charge.

To look on the bright side, though, there's nothing like working like a crazy woman to keep your mind off any lingering feelings of doom. And believe it or not, we did what we needed to do in under twenty four hours! How did we accomplish all this, you ask? In a word—networking. When it came right down to the crunch, my kids' families came through for us.

First off, when Haleth and Alfwine told their dads that we needed a central location, Háma and Gamling agreed that we could set up in the west wing of the Great Hall. Bronwyn, Breca and Freca's washerwoman mom, sorted through her laundry to find cloth that we could turn into sheets and bandages, and Éomer's éored allowed their three young squires—Faegan, Caedmund, and Wulfhelm—to scrounge through the warriors' practice yard for sparring poles and horse blankets that we could turn into stretchers. Wulfhelm in particular was a real Corporal Klinger—he scored us a horse trough and a bunch of leather buckets. That was a major triumph, because it meant that we could carry water to the warriors as well as transport the wounded.

And finally, Wiglaf's mom was pure gold. The biggest challenge we had was getting the healing women to stay topside—those old ladies all wanted to scuttle into the caves to shiver out the battle in comparative safety. But I guess they were more scared of Audhumbhla than they were of the orcs! If she could stay, they could stay, she told them. Audhumbhla had decided to remain in the kitchen and cook for the warriors, since her husband Ingemer had vowed to keep on fletching in the armory until the last orc was dead.

By the evening of my first full day at Helm's Deep, our 'hospital zone'—a 20'x10' corner of the Great Hall that was cordoned off with ropes—was starting to shape up. Once the big kids finished spreading piles of straw onto the stone floor, we'd throw blankets over the piles and they'd become hospital beds. Meanwhile, Wiglaf, Drogo, and Wilibald were helping Guthrun to arrange drugs on a long trestle table. Every now and again either Guthrun or one of her middle-aged assistants would stop and give me another dirty look. I didn't think they'd forgive me about keeping them out of the caves for quite a while.

Assuming, of course, that we managed to survive quite a while.

Meanwhile, warriors pulling on newly repaired armor kept coming up the stairs from the armory in the basement of the Burg. As they passed by the Great Hall, many of them looked inside and gave us quick, grim smiles. They understood what we were trying to do, and they appreciated the thought. So my plan might be crazy, but it wasn't utterly stupid.

Then one old man with bushy white hair and an almost-square beard tottered up to me—nearly tripping over the ropes in the process. He looked like he was about seventy—that meant he was sixty, really. The Rohirrim lived hard. His piecemeal leather armor practically shouted 'no longer attached to an éored.'

"Lady Barbarella?" he quavered. "I am Aldmore."

'Lady'? Uh oh—nobody called me 'lady' unless I was in trouble for something.

"I have heard from my friend Ingemer what you are doing here. I beg of you, Lady—permit me to join your company." Aldmore's protruding Adam's apple went up and down pathetically as he said, "My three sons will be fighting for our King on the Wall, but he thinks me too old to stand with them. Allow me to serve with you so that I may be of some use in this battle."

I was just about to say 'sorry' and brush him off when I noticed the white horse's head embossed on his stained leather cuirass. Aldmore had once been a Rider for King Théoden himself! This senior citizen, shabby or not, was a seasoned fighter. "You used to be in Théoden's éored, weren't you, Aldmore?"

"Aye, for twenty years I fought with the King's men," he said wistfully. "I rode for him in many battles."

An old warrior like Aldmore would be invaluable for this project of mine. My kids were strong and willing but they didn't have a clue about actual combat. And neither did I. So I made a snap command decision. "Okay, you're in. I can use you—I could use a dozen like you!"

"Then a dozen like me you shall have!" Aldmore's humped back straightened proudly and his wrinkled face filled with joy as he gave me that little finger-to-forehead tap that the Riders use to honor their leaders. "I am not the only old warrior who has been refused a place on the Wall."

Wow. Did that make me 'Captain Barbarella'?

Yeah, right. Only in the movies.

As he hurried off to gather up his troops, my newly-revivified recruit was practically skipping over the rope dividers. Glancing past him, I saw Princess Éowyn over by the doorway of the Great Hall. She was staring right at me with a stern expression. I dropped the horse blankets that I was holding and ran over to explain that I had a really, really good reason for going AWOL. "Captain Háma said that we could use this space—" I blurted out.

Distractedly, Éowyn waved one hand to dismiss my abortive apology. She was wearing the blue slate overdress that I'd packed in her saddlebag, but she hadn't gotten around to brushing her hair; it was streaming down her back in blonde tangles and made her look like a Valkyrie. "Gamling told me what it is that you do here. I am proud of you—it is a worthy deed! If only I could join you! But Théoden King has said that I must descend into the caves with the women and children. What renown is there in that?"

Uh oh. I nearly freaked out then and there. Throughout all of history, if there's one thing that can really screw up a project, it's having your boss come in at the last minute to 'help' you. Éowyn was my Princess, sure enough, but I didn't want her shoving me aside so she could lead my kids into 'glorious' combat.

I did feel sympathy for Princess Éowyn, but she had to face facts. Stepping close to her, I said in a low voice, "Look, we both know what's really happening here. Théodred is dead—if you and Éomer get killed too, there'll be nobody left to carry on King Théoden's royal line. Besides, if the worst comes to the worst, the people down in the caves will need you to take command."

"To command them to flee!" Éowyn sighed wearily and combed back her hair with her fingers. "I know that what you say is true, and I shall obey my King as I have always done. But I wither from lack of use—I wither! Will my time for deeds of valor never come?"

Hearing her sigh like that made me feel terrible. I was Éowyn's handmaiden. It was my duty to support her dignity and her dreams, and here I was cutting her off at the knees. "Your time will come, Éowyn. I swear to you—your time will come."

Promising Éowyn 'pie in the sky' sometime in the future indefinite sounded like a snow job to me, but somehow she didn't take it that way. She surprised me by saying, "You, of all people, swear this? I do believe you, Barbarella. We must talk about this—but not here. There is a better place for me to hear your counsel—come along with me." Without another word, she half-hauled, half-dragged me through the Burg and down the stairs to the Rear-Gate.

If it was privacy that we needed, the Rear-Gate landing was a good place for it. It was a secluded spot—the nearest people who could overhear us were twenty feet up on the Deeping Wall. Technically, it was just past sundown, but the entire flagstone walkway was already dark and shadowy. Those incredible Thrihyrne Mountains went up and up and up like vast alien monoliths and cut off all of the direct sunlight. I don't think a sunbeam could ever reach there, except maybe at the stroke of high noon.

I waited quietly. Whatever Éowyn was thinking, it had to be pretty major. Eventually she broke the ominous silence by demanding, "What did you foresee for me in your dreams?"

"F-foresee?"

"I know that you possess the Second Sight," Éowyn said as calmly if this was the most obvious thing in the world. "When I lay at your side in Meduseld, I heard you cry out in your sleep about Helm's Deep and Saruman's orcs."

"But that's not supernatural," I equivocated. (Nothing to see here, folks…move along…) "Anybody might have anticipated that."

Crossing her arms, Éowyn directed a sharp raptor stare down at me. She's Rohirric, okay? They're all tall! "You called out to Legolas and to Gimli by name."

Busted.

Éowyn's haunted eyes entreated me. "From the first day you arrived in Edoras, I have given you my trust. You have served me loyally, but today more than ever before I need your help. If I do not know what I must do in this great battle, I fear that I shall fail my people."

Now that was a stunner. I'd never wanted to talk about where I'd really come from, or about the Tolkien trilogy that I'd never bothered to read. For one thing, it would have marked me as a nutcase. And for another, the little that I knew about LOTR couldn't have helped anybody in Rohan, while if I let the wrong word slip, it could have caused Frodo a world of hurt. But Éowyn's plea to be told the truth absolutely nailed my feet to the floor. I'd begged Gandalf for the exact same thing—and all I'd gotten from him was wizard B.S.

"All right, I'll tell you." I hadn't watched the second movie, but as you can imagine, Mom had shared a few spoilers with me. My dear feminist mother had made a big deal about Princess Éowyn, the "only three-dimensional female character in the entire trilogy."

"Well?" Éowyn said after a long pause.

Would Éowyn actually benefit from my recollections of what was, in the end, only a piece of fiction? Once I passed on what Mom had told me there'd be no turning back. Finally I asked, "Did you ever hear of the Witch-King?"

"Yes," Éowyn answered without hesitation. Of course she had—my boss was no dummy. She'd read every chronicle to be found on King Théoden's shelves. "He was one of the most terrible sorcerers of the Third Age, second only to Sauron. He ruled the Witch-Kingdom of Angmar a thousand years ago and his armies laid waste to the last principalities of the Elder Kingdom of Arnor."

Her reply gave me cold chills—absolutely cold chills. It was so much worse than I'd thought! I'd assumed that the Witch-King was just a Sith or something, but it sounded like he was practically the equal of Saruman!

"The Witch-King is now the leader of Sauron's Nazgûl, the Nine Black Riders," I began reluctantly.

"And what has this to do with me?" Éowyn's face grew pale as she started to connect the dots.

"A long time ago…." I swallowed hard. "A long time ago it was prophesied that the Witch-King would never be slain by man of woman born. But that doesn't mean that he can't be killed—there's always a loophole. I foresee that you are destined to fulfill the prophecy and slay him."

Princess Éowyn was fearless, yes, and she burned for renown—but when she heard me say that, she still shivered. "I am? When? Where?"

What was the name of Boromir's White City? It was hard to remember place names from Middle-earth that had meant zip to me when I heard them in the theater. "It will be sometime after the Battle of Helm's Deep and it will be at the gates of the capital of Gondor."

"Will I…will I live?" she asked with quiet dignity.

Completely shredding my own dignity, I half-yelled, half-sobbed, "Oh, Éowyn—I DON'T KNOW!!! Things aren't happening the way they're supposed to happen! I thought that Aragorn was going to live, but somehow he got killed! I don't understand what's going on anymore—why should I be here and know all these things if they don't come true?"

Pulling me so close that my nose hit her collarbone, Éowyn patted me softly on the back. It was her turn to comfort me. "Shhh, shhh—it's all right. I know now what I am supposed to do, and that is the greatest boon that anyone could give to me."

"But Éowyn, I ought to be able to tell you…"

"Do not distress yourself. It is not given to mortals to know their own fate. If our hearts are true, that is enough." Éowyn pushed my chin up with the heel of her hand and gave me a confident smile. It was as if having me to worry about had made her feel braver. Then she slipped back into the Burg and left me to my thoughts.

I have to tell you, my 'dark imaginings' were getting pretty bad. But if Éowyn believed that courage was 'enough,' then maybe I could believe it too. Maybe I was ready to face these dark days alongside Éowyn's people.

And ready or not, I would have to.

*************


	12. Suicide is Painless

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Some of my readers' 'favorite stories' look very interesting! I'll have to check them out as soon as I have time. But I've been spending my time on writing, and next weekend I'll be at a science fiction convention. By the way—in case you hadn't noticed, I published another piece of Lord of the Rings fanfiction quite a while back. **The Valar Must Be Crazy** is… completely different.

**Section 12 Suicide is Painless**

The next morning I woke up on top of a pile of straw, wearing the same grungy clothes that I'd worn the previous day. The night before, my kids and I had crashed in the straw beds in our cordoned hospital area, and throughout the night, one old guy after another had appeared to snore alongside us. By morning my stretcher corps had doubled in size.

I rubbed my furry teeth with the side of one finger and hauled myself up to begin the new day's labors. In spite of everything that was happening, I felt surprisingly calm. It was like standing at the top of an unfamiliar ski slope. You centered your mind, took one last deep breath, and then plunged downhill on a snowy run you'd never set skis to before.

A little later, Audhumbhla arrived with a steaming tub full of oatmeal and plunked it down onto Guthrun's trestle table. Then and there, my kids and I sat down cross-legged on the stone floor and had breakfast with Aldmore's crew. While we ate breakfast I was making a careful assessment of our new senior recruits.

For the most part, they looked okay. Their hair was white or absent and their skin was wrinkly and age-spotted, but at least I didn't hear any wheezing—not a lot of wheezing, anyway. It looked like Aldmore hadn't invited any old pals who were blind or deaf or crippled. That was definitely for the best; PC or no, we couldn't have handled anybody who was seriously handicapped.

After breakfast I ordered Haleth and Aldmore to finish setting up the hospital and left them in charge of Ops so I could scope out the areas we'd be working in later. We would have to split our attention between the Great Gates and the Deeping Wall, so Alfwine had suggested that we place our supply station underneath the stairs that led to the Wall.

I checked it out and saw that he was right—underneath the stairs would be the most convenient spot. The location was equidistant from the Great Gates, the midpoint of the Deeping Wall, and our hospital zone in the Great Hall—maybe two hundred feet away from each. We could store the horse trough and our stretchers at the side of the stairs, so we wouldn't interfere with the warriors as they ran up and down.

At that point I climbed the stairs myself so I could get a good look at the Deeping Wall. It was impressive—a gigantic limestone structure about twenty feet high and ten feet across, made of massive blocks fitted together without mortar. There was a waist-high rampart on the outer side of the Wall that would give some protection to the defenders—but nowhere near enough protection to suit me, since it was my kids that would be coming up here in the thick of battle.

For the most part, the warriors stationed on the Wall were Erkenbrand's men—I could tell by the white starbursts on their armor. When he caught sight of me, one strapping fellow with a pink horsehair Mohawk on top of his helmet whispered something surreptitiously to the man next to him. Did I hear the name 'Gríma'? Yeah, I probably did. It would seem that my 'fame' had preceded me.

Pointedly ignoring their curious looks, I walked up and down the length of the Deeping Wall, about a hundred yards end to end. Weird as it may sound, it was wonderful to be out there. The sunshine was warm on my back, the breezes smelled delicious, and the valley below was bursting into spring flowers. It was like a mountain meadow in Colorado. At this altitude, the Deeping Stream was a mere rivulet that flowed through a little culvert underneath the Wall.

From the top of the Deeping Wall, I could see why the Hornburg was considered 'impregnable.' The Wall extended all the way across the valley and ended in the Thrihyrne Mountains. Basically, you'd need nukes to get through the great slab rockface of the Thrihyrnes. An invading army would have only two choices: charge the length of the Causeway and storm the heavily-defended Great Gates, or try to scale a twenty-foot high Wall with archers shooting down at them every second. Looked good to me!

When I came back to the Outer Court I ran into Bronwyn, who had a big surprise for me. She said that she was warming a tub of water in the kitchen so I could take a bath! And—oh frabjous day—she'd managed to snag me some clean clothing. One of Audhumbhla's daughters had found a noblewoman's gown in a chest on one of the upper floors of the Burg. At any rate, we all assumed it had belonged to a noblewoman because it was made of a beautiful maroon wool and was fastened with silver toggles. Of course the color sucked against my red hair. But the dress was warm and it was clean, and we were fighting a war at Helm's Deep, not filming a movie.

By the time I returned to our staging area in the Great Hall it looked like we were ready to roll. All the beds had been made up, the stretchers were put together, and the horse trough had been set on rollers so it could be easily moved over to the stairs. Even Guthrun and her girls were a little less grumpy. Meanwhile, two of the little boys, Wiglaf and Wilibad, had jumped onto the trestle table and were hanging something up on the wall that looked like a kindergarten felt board. I knew it had to be a banner, but to tell you the truth, I couldn't tell right off what it was supposed to be. All I could make out was a brown blob pasted on top of a white triangle.

My kids and my senior recruits were all watching to see how I would react. I tried to catch Haleth's or Aldmore's eye, but neither of them was kindly enough to give me a clue. So I strolled over to the two boys and said diplomatically, "Well, that looks very nice. What does it mean, exactly?"

"Ask Drogo!" they chorused. "He's the one who made it for us!"

Drogo is an East Emnet boy—they're supposed to be artistic and crafty, and he certainly was. I asked my budding young da Vinci, "All right, Drogo, what have you come up with here?"

Drogo, who was only nine, was missing both of his front teeth. When he gave me a great, big smile the effect was somewhat fearsome. He's a bit shorter than Wilibald or Wiglaf and his auburn hair is as curly as Shirley Temple's—or a hobbit's. "I cut it myself out of saddle padding. It's a goat on top of a big mountain!"

Not out of saddle padding that the Riders still wanted to use, I hoped. "Okay, why a goat?"

"We all wanted a goat on our banner," he told me proudly, "to show that we're Barbarella's Kids!"

Oops. Was that what I'd been saying all along? 'Kids' as in 'baby goats'?

It just goes to show—there's no such thing as a perfect translation.

*************

A little later in the afternoon I pulled together both groups for what I called 'Senior Seminar.' My original idea was that Aldmore's recruits could teach my kids—uh, boys— how to stay out from underfoot, how to keep their heads down and out of the line of fire, how to move a man with broken bones or with arrows sticking out of him, and so on. But then Guthrun and her healers got into the act and showed us how to apply bandages and put pressure on bleeding wounds and other good things. In turn, this inspired me to reach back to my YMCA classes and demonstrate what I'd learned about artificial respiration. Elric volunteered Fréalof as my 'patient.' Since his 'little brother' was almost as tall as a full-grown man, he made a good practice dummy. And besides, the whole group enjoyed hearing Fréalof shriek when I 'kissed' him.

In the end, everybody picked up something new and we all felt better prepared.

The class was just breaking up when my old pal Haldred marched into our section of the Hall and wordlessly placed a rolled parchment into my hands. I quickly unrolled the message, which was from Éowyn:

"_Your foresight was not wrong, Barbarella—Lord Aragorn lives. He fell over a cliff into the river and was borne downstream in time to see Saruman's forces crossing the plain. Aragorn reports that an army of at least ten thousand will arrive tonight. It was a fearsome thing to hear, but our hearts are true and we'll not fail_."

When I looked up from the parchment, everyone was staring at me with a creeped-out expression. No surprise there—written messages are rare in Rohirric society, so it was like somebody in my mother's generation getting a telegram: '_The Department of the Army regrets to inform you_…'

I had to tell my people something, and what I was stuck with was the truth. I didn't think I'd be able to lie worth spit—not on the spur of the moment, at least.

So I winged it as best as I could. "First off, good tidings. Princess Éowyn says that Lord Aragorn wasn't killed after all. Moreover, he was able to get a good look at what Saruman's army is up to, and he says that we can expect the enemy to arrive sometime tonight."

And then I had to say to them, "Lord Aragorn says that Saruman's forces are about ten thousand strong."

A sigh audibly whooshed from one side of the group to the other. My kids were really shaken up, and it looked like Guthrun's women would get to 'aprons over the head' time in seconds. Even Aldmore's old guys were anxiously muttering to each other. This spread of terror had to be nipped in the bud. The face of war I might not be familiar with, but I'd had recent and intimate experience with panic.

Putting two fingers in my mouth, I whistled loudly. "Hey, folks, what's the problem? Helm's Deep has withstood every siege ever thrown at it—isn't that right, Haldred?" I whipped my head around to glare at my bearer of evil tidings. Haldred owed me one—he was the one who'd scared my people to begin with.

Although Haldred's jaw did drop for a second, he handled his 'command performance' with commendable aplomb. "Your words are true, Barbarella. It has always been said that no enemy can take the Hornburg so long as it is defended."

Aldmore too pulled himself together and nodded solemnly. A King's Rider knows the importance of maintaining morale. "Aye, Lady, and it is not only we who defend this Keep. The ancients who constructed the Hornburg long ago built its walls strong and thick."

After that everybody simmered down quite a bit. Aldmore's recruits understood that they had to stay calm in order to reassure the kids, and naturally, all of my kids wanted to come off like superheroes in front of these well-seasoned warriors. As for Guthrun and her cronies, they would never have to set foot outside the Great Hall anyway. So what were they whining about?

It was time to stop talking and start doing, so I jumped onto the trestle table to shout some orders. "Okay, troops, listen up! We're as ready now as we're going to get, and there's a lot of stuff that needs to be moved into position. Let's head 'em up and move 'em out!"

And every one of those people did what I told them to do! Did that make me 'Captain Barbarella' or what?

First, Aldmore's men rolled Wulfhelm's horse trough over to the Deeping Wall staircase. Then the big kids hauled a pair of wooden tubs into position, one up on the Wall, the other next to the Great Gates. Finally the little kids ran back and forth with buckets to fill them up. When the time came, some of my guys—young and old—would be stationed at each of those two places. My littles would run errands and keep the trough and tubs full of water.

Plenty of warriors—including Éomer!—had seen everything that we were doing, but nobody had ordered us to stop. I wasn't surprised. As Kipling put it,

_When it comes to slaughter,  
You'll do your work on water  
And you'll kiss the blooming boots of him who's got it._

I soon discovered that we were able to prop up our stretchers and stack our medical supplies with horrifying swiftness. Horrifying—because what it meant was that we had almost no medicine to put in stock that could help a wounded warrior. Of course, when we got an injured man into the Great Hall Guthrun could always swab an herb on him or something.

Once these tasks were completed we simply…waited. I'm afraid that a couple of my kids snuck up onto the Deeping Wall to see what was going on, and as a matter of fact, I did a little sneaking up myself. Just as the evening star twinkled into view, Haleth pointed out a big black mass that was oozing toward us from the north. It was Saruman's army, and it looked like they'd reach Helm's Deep in an hour or two.

Well, we couldn't just stand around quaking in our boots. I told Aldmore to send everyone down to the Great Hall in shifts to hit the chow line, and warned the kids that they should eat enough to settle their stomachs, but not enough to fill them up.

When it was my turn I scooted downstairs with Wilibald and Wiglaf. In the Outer Court we had to be extra-careful sidling past the rows of warriors, because they were all brandishing sharp steel. When we got to the Inner Court I saw that it was completely deserted—everyone had already swarmed out to fight. By then it was pretty dark, too, but I could see what I was doing by the light of the torches in wall sconces.

Remembering my fight with Gríma—which was how many million years ago?—it occurred to me that we shouldn't let our warriors trip on rocks in the dark. So I ordered Wilibald and Wiglaf to eat quickly, check the torches, and replace any that seemed to be burning out.

There was pea soup and oatbread waiting in the Great Hall, but I was too nervous to eat. Wiglaf kissed his mother and snatched a handful of oatcakes, then charged off with Wilibald back to the Courts. Audhumbhla shook her head fondly at her little boy but didn't try to stop him. Meanwhile, Guthrun was pouring something into six earthenware mugs that were sitting in the middle of the trestle table. Whatever she had in that kettle, it was steaming and it smelled piney.

Looking around, I realized that every woman who was still above ground was there in the Hall—Guthrun and her cronies Fleta and Merth, Audhumbhla and her blonde daughter (whose name I still can't recall), and of course me. The rest of the women each picked up a mug, Guthrun shoved the last one into my hands, and we all drank. Guthrun's herb concoction certainly wasn't espresso, but it was pretty potent anyway.

The whole thing was like one of my Mom's 'sisterhood' rituals. It was awesome; for that moment we felt really close. I didn't have a lot of spare time, but I wanted to stay just one more moment to savor the experience.

What do you say to each other at a time like that? Maybe what Audhumbhla said as she beamed at us, "I am very proud to be here with you all. No woman could do more than this in such a time of battle."

I thought of Éowyn and said, "Well, mostly."

Fleta and Merth (the sisters Grim) spoke simultaneously: "I suppose that it is a good thing that we are helping…" "My sons are on the Wall tonight…" They blinked nervously at each other and stopped in mid-sentence.

Then Guthrun scowled at me and dug a thick wad of grimy black cloth from one of her bags. It turned out to be her own well-used woolen cloak. "That reminds me. You'll need this on the Wall tonight."

It was a nice gesture, but I really wanted to stay clean for just a few more hours. So I smiled tactfully and said, "That's kind of you, but I couldn't possibly…"

"Orcs can see in the dark. It'll make you harder to spot," she snapped. "I don't want that old fool Aldmore taking over and telling me what to do."

Way to go, Barbarella. Get yourself killed, why don't you? My tactful smile vanished and I meekly accepted the pungent offering. "Uh…thanks."

It was about that time that I heard the horns. Had I tarried too long at the party? Grabbing Guthrun's cloak, I rushed back to the Outer Court to learn that all of the Rohirrim were as puzzled and worried as I was.

Somebody was yelling, "Let them in!" It was Aragorn. I guess Rangers do have a way of sinking into the shadows. I hadn't even seen the man until he shouted. He rushed past me toward the Great Gates, with Legolas and Gimli right behind him. All three of them were hastily shoving their arms into chainmail.

Before I even had time to say, 'eek!' the warriors of Rohan threw open the Gates and a squadron of soldiers marched up the Causeway in close formation. It wasn't orcs—I should have known that the enemy couldn't have reached Helm's Deep that fast. It was a company of elven archers in gleaming scale mail!

When the first few rows of archers entered the torchlight I was stunned to realize that I actually recognized their blond commander. For once, here was someone who looked pretty much the same as his counterpart in the movie—at least at a distance where I couldn't see that 'I am eternal' look in his immortal eyes. His perfectly oval, kewpie-doll face was unmistakable.

"Haldir!" I gasped. Now wasn't this just Old Home Week!

Aragorn was standing in front of me watching the Elves approach. For an instant he swung around to shoot me an odd look, then raced forward to give Haldir a hearty embrace. I guess the two of them were better friends than they seemed in _Fellowship of the Ring_.

While he did that, I was counting Elves. They were marching in such a precise column that it was easy to get a head-count: including Haldir, there were exactly 625. This was a superb addition to our defenses. Théoden King had only about two thousand fighting men in the Hornburg, maybe half of them Riders, so Saruman's forces outnumbered us five to one. On the other hand, this was Helm's Deep and we were prepared for a siege. And now we had Elves. If these Lothlorien archers were even half as good as Legolas, each one of them should be able to pick off several orcs before the enemy even came close.

The situation was beginning to look up. Yay!!!

I couldn't stand not knowing where the enemy was, so I climbed the stairs to the Deeping Wall and waited unobtrusively next to the stairwell. If anybody had asked me, I would have said that I was supervising my guys. As the night grew darker it also got chillier, so eventually I gave up on cleanliness and wrapped Guthrun's dirty cloak around my nice gown. I sure hoped she was right about the cloak making it harder for orcs to spot me.

The Elves were taking up position on the Deeping Wall. I was proud to see that a handful of them had accepted dippers of water from Fréalof, who was in charge of Water Station Two. I gave him a quick 'thumbs up' to encourage him – in close proximity to those scary Elves he looked as stupefied as a teenybopper who'd just gotten hugged by Orlando Bloom.

"It would seem that the face of Haldir is not unknown to you."

I was so startled that I must have levitated a few inches in the air. The speaker was Aragorn, who'd managed to sneak up behind me again. It figures. You could tell that the man was a veteran of a hundred battles. There was a vast army charging toward us only minutes away but he looked completely calm.

"So, Barbarella, however did you meet the Marchwarden of Lothlorien?" he asked me with an expression of ill-concealed curiosity. "You could not have been more than a baby the last time he took leave of the Golden Wood."

I glared up disgustedly at him. Perry Mason strikes again! No, Socrates was more like it. Eventually the Athenians got tired of Socrates interrogating them all the time and they made him drink poison.

"Look, Aragorn—if you want to know whether I was sent here by Galadriel—why don't you just ask her?"

Hah! That wiped the smirk off his face.

*************


	13. Enter the Dragon

**Usual disclaimers and thanks: **nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Went to my science fiction convention and was on a couple of panels—one on anime, another on gamemastering RPGs. I gamemastered a LOTR RPG once—all of the player characters were hobbits!

**Section 13 Enter the Dragon**

In my whole life, an hour never dragged more slowly than the hour that came next. I couldn't see anything moving out there in the dark, but occasionally an Elf would call out, "Dunlendings on the left—warg riders on the right—the orcs carry many ladders."

It was terrifying.

When I first spotted Saruman's army it was just a line of bobbing dots of light, but eventually it got close enough for me to make out individual soldiers with my mere-human eyes. When I did, I was kind of surprised. Just as Aragorn had said, Saruman was sending thousands and thousands of warriors against us, an incredible mass of troops that covered the whole Deeping Coomb. There were probably enough of them to fill two or three football stadiums. But his army was composed entirely of barbarian humans and battle-orcs (not the little goblins—the big ones, like the orc that killed Boromir.)

And nothing else.

I guess I'd been expecting a horde of cave trolls, balrogs, and Nazgûl—you know, the kind of high-res SFX monsters that you'd expect to see in a fantasy movie. But all we had to beat was a bunch of humanoid soldiers armed with spears and swords. A very, very large bunch of soldiers, it was true.

But still!

I began to feel a little more optimistic.

*************

As it turned out, I stayed on top of the Wall just a little too long.

The wind had started to pick up and thick black storm clouds were blocking out the moon. As I peered over the Deeping Coomb to the stark untouched peaks of the White Mountains, I realized that except for the near-miraculous appearance of Haldir's Elves, nobody was going to show up to help us. We were on our own. Compared to anywhere back home, Middle-earth is a pretty empty place. And if the orcs had their way, it would become a lot emptier.

Do you know how dark it gets when there are no electric lights to reflect against the clouds? The only illumination we had were a few torches flickering along the Wall—plus the multitude of torches that winked below us as the enemy advanced. I certainly didn't want to look down at that for very long. The remorseless "thump thump thump" of thousands of marching feet was enough to shake the nerves even of seasoned warriors, and as for me, the closer that Saruman's forces came, the scareder I got.

So I retreated to where I was actually supposed to be stationed: the medical supply corner at the bottom of the Deeping Wall stairs. The light source closest to the stairs was a row of torches next to the Great Gates, and dozens of warriors were clustered right next to those torches. Some stood at attention with their shields on their arms; others crouched on the stone floor. A few were leaning against the fortress wall and trying to rest. Each man was clutching a big broadsword and all of them were wearing full armor.

These warriors were the defensive reserve, and what they were waiting for was so awful that I couldn't bear to think about it. We all knew that the Great Gates had to be defended at any cost. When a warrior fell from the top of the fortress wall, one of these men would run up to take the dead man's place.

I'd never witnessed anything like this back home—or ever wanted to. This wasn't a war movie. This was War itself. It was like watching the footmen on the way to Helm's Deep. When one of them got shot, the rest of them just closed ranks and kept on marching toward the orcs.

I shook my head and tried to put the thought to one side. What I had to do next was to find a torch ASAP—the supply corner was simply too shadowy for me to work in. Under the stairs it was so dark that I could barely distinguish between blankets and bandages. I ran one hand along the wall until my fingers finally touched a bronze sconce about a foot over my head. Pushing over a supply crate to use as a stepstool, I fumbled around in my belt pouch for my vesper box. I'd lost everything else that I had—possibly including my mind—but I hadn't lost that.

Everything around me was like a horror movie from the Forties. I was in a spooky old fortress built hundreds of years before by long-dead stonemasons, I was wearing a long, flowing gown, I was standing at the bottom of a strange crenellated staircase.

And I was all alone in the dark.

Then someone whispered from behind me, "Barbarella, you need a new torch."

I nearly screamed out loud.

Heart pounding, I whirled around to discover that the speaker was only Wilibald, the smallest of my kids. Even in the gloom, he was easy to recognize—his mop of tousled blond hair was shining in the starlight.

Wilibald was hugging to his chest a bundle of torches that were so long, their ends were hitting him on the shins. If I'd been a Ranger like Aragorn I suppose I would have known somebody was there just from the smell of the resin.

Leaning his torches against the stairs, Wilibald clambered onto the supply crate and expertly pulled a charred torchstub from its sconce, then clicked a fresh torch into the empty socket. I was impressed. The last time I'd seen torches juggled that well had been at the Renfair outside Castle Rock.

"Great job," I complimented him, and meant it. I'd given Wiglaf and Wilibald this job on the spur of the moment, and they'd really taken ownership. "I'm proud of you."

Wilibald beamed up at me. "It's something that even I can do to help our warriors."

After that it was my turn. After a series of frenzied clicks, I finally set fire to a rag in my vesper box and touched it to the fresh torch. As the resin-drenched strands finally caught fire, there was a sharp crack of thunder and a cold rain started to drizzle. It was going to be a bad night for a battle–not that there was ever a good one.

Since neither of us had anything left to do, we sat on a bottom step and waited for men that we both knew and liked to be brought down bleeding and maimed from the battle. At least it wouldn't be like my own Twin Towers, when the medical personnel waited and waited and nobody was brought down to them, living or dead.

"Barbarella, can I ask you a question?" Wilibald's voice was very light and wispy. No wonder—the poor kid was only nine years old and he was scared to death. He had reason to be scared, too—we were sitting right in the cross hairs at Ground Zero.

I grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "Yes, Wilibald, go ahead and ask."

He squeezed my hand right back, even tighter. "Do you think that we're all going to die?"

Ugh. That, of course, was the very question that I'd been trying not to think about myself.

Would this be the end? Was our side going to lose? Would I die before the sun came up?

My throat tightened and for a second I wondered whether I was having another panic attack. But I forced out a couple of dry coughs and managed to clear my throat enough so I could breathe. This time I really, really had to stay calm—Wilibald was only a little kid, not Gandalf the White. If I panicked in front of him he'd run screaming all the way to the Glittering Caves.

What could I possibly say to Wilibald that wouldn't scare him even more? The Hornburg was a great fortress, true, but frankly our odds were lousy. We had a gigantic orc army right outside the Gates that was totally dedicated to one thing and one thing only—killing men. Women and children too—neither his family nor his friends would be spared if the orcs broke through.

In that moment I realized how much more Wilibald had to lose than I did. Everybody that he'd ever known or loved was right here in the Hornburg with us. If we lost this battle, Wilibald's whole world would be destroyed.

Now that was something that I could actually be hopeful about. Odds or no odds, I had good reason to be optimistic.

Just this once, Professor Tolkien's magnificent classic saga would be of some practical use. Aragorn was still alive, which had to mean that we'd gotten ourselves back on track. The good guys were going to win and the people of Rohan were going to survive.

"No, Wilibald, we are not all going to die." I smiled down at him with the supreme confidence of a vindicated seer. "Théoden King will not lose this battle. The orcs can batter their fists bloody and their spears into stumps on the walls of the Hornburg, but they'll never get inside."

"Are you—are you sure?" Wilibald was nervously wringing in his hands the triple-padded cloth cap that all the little kids had worn in lieu of a battle-helm.

I slung my left arm around Wilibald's thin shoulder and squished him a little. "Of course I'm sure! Don't you trust your Barbarella?"

Wilibald squirmed a bit, then shrugged off my arm with an air of boyish embarrassment. "I do! I feel so much better now! So long as the orcs don't get in, Mama and my baby sister are sure to be safe down in the caves!"

Then, as if he didn't have a worry in the world, Wilibald bounced to his feet, ready to face the world. Ah, the vast self-confidence and the tiny attention spans of pre-teeners!

Of course that self-confidence could be a danger in itself. Kids his age all thought they were immortal—but they sure weren't.

"Look, Wilibald—you have to promise me you'll be careful out there. Do what the warriors tell you to do and don't poke your nose where it doesn't belong. If you don't watch out you could get hurt or killed—and you could get other people hurt or killed too."

"Oh, I will, I will! You can count on me to be careful!" Snatching up his bundle of torches, Wilibald gave me an innocent smile and darted toward the Great Gates.

Yeah, right.

Well, at least Wilibald was feeling more cheerful.

Before I even had time to catch my breath, one of my young squires-in-training clattered downstairs from the Deeping Wall. Wulfhelm was tugging along with him a scruffy old man who had to be one of Aldmore's recruits.

"Osfrid's wounded!" Wulfhelm announced rather unnecessarily.

The tough old fellow's bald head was covered with blood, but he didn't seem particularly happy about the attention he was getting. "I ain't wounded, I'm just bleeding," Osfrid snapped. "One of those fool pikemen poked me by accident."

"Pikemen? I thought all of the pikemen were on the Great Gates." I'd made a point of finding out where the Northern Cousins were stationed, as a matter of simple prudence.

"Not one of the real pikemen, Barbarella," Wulfhelm sniffed with the professional condescension of a 'real warrior.' "The cotters and herdsmen begged Gamling to let them up on the Wall to fight, but none have been trained to use the sword or the war-bow. He gave them pikes so at least they could reinforce the rear line."

"And they ain't any good with pikes neither!" Osfrid grumbled, as if being sliced in the head was an everyday occurrence for him. "Look, Barbarella, I don't need no healing—I need to get back to the Wall."

Osfrid's wound was only a small triangular cut over his left eyebrow, so I was inclined to agree with him. But I didn't think I should countermand Wulfhelm's first field decision, and anyway scalp wounds do bleed a lot.

"C'mon, Osfrid, you don't want blood dripping into your eyes," I said, as I wiped the blood off his forehead. "I'll patch you up in a jiffy and you can get right back to the Wall."

Smearing a dollop of honey onto the wound, I pulled a strip of cloth from the pile of bandages and wrapped it around his forehead as neatly as I could. Up until that day I'd never heard that honey was an antiseptic, but Guthrun thought it was, and I guess at some point you've got to believe that the local experts aren't completely dim.

I was quite aware that if I messed up in any way that Wulfhelm would tell me so at length. He was a stocky kid with a broad face and heavy eyebrows, and you would guess from his looks that he was an impulsive, 'damn-the-torpedoes' type like Éomer—but you would be wrong. Wulfhelm was only twelve, but he was extremely bright—maybe too bright, because it made him somewhat arrogant and smug. If he'd been born in Boulder, Colorado I'm sure he would have been a Mac geek.

Fortunately my bandaging was good enough to suit them both, and as soon as I was done, Osfrid stamped back up the stairs with Wulfhelm right behind him. By then it was raining so hard that rivulets of rainwater were snaking their way down the worn steps, but neither the too-old warrior nor the too-young warrior seemed to care.

And then, finally, I was alone—really alone. True, there were dozens of warriors less than fifty yards away, but they had problems of their own and no time for me. I'd raised my hand to volunteer for this job, and now, one way or another, I would have to see it through.

Bending down to the flagstone pavement, I picked up a bean-shaped pebble that I'd felt through the toe of my slipper. I stared for a moment at the little quartz streamstone and then slipped it into my belt pouch alongside the vesper box.

"It's just you and me now, Prince Théodred," I murmured.

After that there was more thunder, louder and nearer, and a sharp pattering that meant the rain was really coming down. I was beginning to wonder what was happening on top of the Wall when other, more frightening noises drowned out the sound of thunder.

Hoarse yells. A harsh thrumming from many arrows. The clang of metal striking metal.

The Battle of Helm's Deep had begun.

A triumphant howling roar reverberated from the great bowl of the Deeping Coomb, as if from a packed stadium.

It sounded like a touchdown—but not for our team.

This was no time to be a wuss. In a creepy situation like this, my mom might have tried transcendental meditation to calm down—maybe burnt a little incense to clear her aura or stared into a crystal. But as I've said before, I'm not my mother. The only technique that I know is to close my eyes, grit my teeth and suck it up.

So I did.

Eyes still closed, I heard a shrill "SQUEE-CRUMP-BANG!" from outside the Wall—and many voices raised in horrified surprise.

Hearing that surprise was very unnerving. I manage to get surprised all the time by Middle-earth, but the men of Rohan were born and raised in Middle-earth—it isn't supposed to surprise them.

What could that sound be?

Whatever it was, it was followed by another in a minute or so. After the next "SQUEE-CRUMP-BANG" the shouting from the Deeping Wall began to turn into yelling—maybe even into screaming. I couldn't make out the words, but I could tell that the men were frightened. Something bad was happening up there.

At that moment, splashing rainwater in all directions, Wulfhelm dashed down the stairs and nearly knocked me off my feet. I grabbed him and held him tight to stop his panicky charge and discovered that he was trembling with shock and terror.

"We're doomed!" he gasped. "There is no hope—the orcs are attacking us with foul sorcery!"

I could have answered that in a lot of ways, but what actually popped out of my mouth was, "Sorcery? I don't believe it! Are you crazy?"

This was a stupid time for an argument, but there was no way that I could have avoided thrashing this out with Wulfhelm. He was bound and determined to decide for himself exactly what was going on and then force me to agree that he was right. If he didn't make the attempt he'd probably burst from the strain. It looked like he was about to burst anyway—that reddish-brown hair of his was streaming out in all directions like Albert Einstein's.

Sure enough, Wulfhelm snapped right back at me, "I know what I saw! Who was there, Barbarella—you or me?"

"What makes you think that the orcs were using sorcery?" I asked cautiously. That was something that I needed to know myself.

"Because it could have been nothing else. What I saw was like a dragon spitting out fire!"

Now that made no sense—even I know that there were no dragons in _The Lord of the Rings_! "A dragon—you mean with wings and scales and stuff?"

"You're not listening! I did not say it was a dragon!" Wulfhelm was starting to get mad at me, which was probably for the best, considering the alternative. "It is a monstrous weapon just like the stories of dragonbreath. The Uruk-Hai are shooting out great fireballs that trail red and yellow sparks through the air. What can they be but the wicked craft of the Wizard Saruman?"

I was willing to believe the 'wicked craft' part, but I couldn't swallow the rest of it. I seemed to recall that Wizards could zap lightning bolts at you with their staffs, but I didn't think they could do it long distance. "Couldn't they be flaming missiles flung out by a catapult?"

"No, they could not!"

One by one, Wulfhelm ticked off his arguments on grubby fingers.

"First, wherever a fireball strikes the Wall, yellow flames shoot into the air and big rocks fly up like chaff struck by a flail. Second, the fireballs belch out deathfumes wherever they hit. And finally, they scream like dwimmerlaiks as they fly through the air. There is no catapult stone made by man that can do that—nor can any other weapon ever built by mortal hands."

And then he glared at me, as if the whole thing was my fault or something.

It was clear that Wulfhelm's mind was made up; there was no point in arguing with him any longer. He wasn't going to be swayed by a mere girl who wasn't even a shieldmaiden.

I knew one thing, though—this "we're doomed" business of Wulfhelm's had to stop. It would completely demoralize everyone who heard it, starting with me. I didn't have a choice—I had to make a tactical decision that was probably going to enrage him.

"Okay then, kiddo, change of plans," I said as tactfully as I could. "Wounded men are going to start coming down the stairs any second now, and I need to be sure that Guthrun is ready to handle them. I want you to hop over to the Great Hall and check to be sure that she has everything in order. While you're on the way, don't tell anybody else that there's 'no hope'—it'll just scare people. And don't run—you'll cause a panic."

Wulfhelm's face reddened and for a moment he looked like he was going to explode. It must have shamed him to be sent back to the minors like that, but I had no alternative. Amazingly, he didn't even try to argue—he must have been really spooked.

Grimly smacking his forehead with his fingers, Wulfhelm obeyed my orders as meticulously as he did everything else and jogged off toward our makeshift hospital without another word. If he tried to boss Guthrun the way he'd tried to boss me, she'd bite his head off. But I knew he wouldn't. Like I said, Wulfhelm is bright.

Right after he left there was another "SQEE-CRUMP-BANG!" The yelling upstairs was turning into hoarse shouts and ragged screams. It sounded like Wulfhelm wasn't the only one who was afraid of dragons. I was beginning to think that I'd have to go up to the Deeping Wall after all to find out what was really going on.

Because I was almost positive that the funny sound I'd been hearing was—-rockets.

*************


	14. Charge of the Light Brigade

**Usual disclaimers and thanks: **nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Fair warning—this section includes SONG LYRICS!! But not, I bet, any song that you might imagine.

And to answer my latest review, yep, rockets! If you think back you'll recall one important change that occurred in Saruman's tactical situation…

**Section 14 Charge of the Light Brigade**

Climbing up those steep slick steps in the dark would have been no picnic, even if I hadn't been so scared that I was shaking in my slippers. And when I finally reached the top of the stairs, my heart seemed to sink right down into those very slippers. I'd gotten it right—the gritty haze swirling over the Wall stank of gunpowder.

I couldn't see far through the rain and gunsmoke, but about a stone's throw away I could make out shadowy figures in the front line. Even Éomer's seasoned warriors were holding their shields over their heads to protect them from the sky! It figures—the Rohirrim laughed at death but they were frightened by the supernatural.

Where was Aragorn? Surely a great commander like Lord Aragorn would be able to knock some sense into these men and rally the waverers. Hey—at that point I would have cheerfully settled for Pippin and Merry. At least they knew what fireworks looked like!

From out of the darkness, an auburn-haired figure pushed toward me through the mass of armored bodies. It was Haleth. At first I was proud that he at least was more solemn than terrified. But then he grabbed me by the shoulder and said earnestly, "You must not remain here, Barbarella. The men say that we will all die, that mortals like us cannot defeat magic."

No. I didn't want to hear that any more. Not from Haleth.

"But we did defeat magic—remember?" I snapped back furiously. And that had been real magic, too, not just high school science! "Anyway, what the enemy is using isn't sorcery. It's just…just chemistry."

"Chemistry?" Haleth echoed incredulously. Well, no, what he actually said was "alchemy" because there's no such word as 'chemistry' in Rohirric.

I did a quick reboot and came up with a better explanation on my second try. It was a world-class translation, if I do say so myself. "It's not sorcery—it's just vesper fire!"

"Vesper fire?" It was too dark to make out Haleth's expression, but he began to sound a bit more convinced. This time I was making sense, after all. Everyone knew how handy the little vesper boxes were, and nobody was afraid when they sparked—but nobody knew exactly why they worked, either. "How can you be sure?"

"Because I recognize that smell, and it sure isn't magic."

Haleth must have recognized that odor too—he had to realize that the enemy weapon had sulfur in it, just like the vesper boxes.

"Look, Haleth, you can see for yourself that the warriors are going crazy out there." Taking a deep breath, I ordered him, "You have to run to the Great Gates and explain to your father and to Théoden King that what they're facing is just vesper fire, not sorcery."

I was taking a lot onto myself, I know, but nobody else understood what was going on, and somebody had to do something.

Haleth, bless him, was willing to believe what I'd told him and to follow my orders. He had already put one foot on the top step of the stairs and was starting to head down when he turned to ask, "But how can I possibly convince them?"

Good point. Haleth was as brave and as smart a grown man, but he was a thirteen-year-old kid, not Lord Aragorn. How was a beardless boy going to convince a terrified mob that he was right?

Well, what is it that the Rohirrim will always listen to?

Just on the spur of the moment, I came up with an idea that surprised even me. "You can sing to them! The Riders of Rohan will believe a battle song if they believe nothing else, and one of the battle songs of my people describes this weapon perfectly."

Translating lyrics on the fly in the middle of a battle sure isn't what I studied linguistics for! But I managed to do it. Not only that, I even managed to carry the tune that no ballpark vocalist ever gets right. Now that wasn't magic—that was a miracle!

_And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air  
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.  
Oh say does that star-spangled banner yet wave  
Over the land of the free and the home of the brave?_

Just as I completed my halting solo, another rocket exploded in a burst of crimson sparks only feet above the Wall. As the defenders scattered on either side Haleth turned his face toward the sky and said quietly, "I will make them listen to me."

Watching him skid down the stairs, I was sure that Haleth would make those warriors believe him. And I….

I would have to do the same thing on the Deeping Wall.

At any rate, I had to try. Crazy as it might sound, convincing the Rohirrim that Saruman's rockets were fashioned from nothing but gunpowder and malice might actually change the course of the battle.

And then I looked out onto the Wall and got scared all over again. The orcs were still shooting an endless hail of arrows toward us. Even over the yells and screams I could hear an agonized cry when a warrior in the front line fell with an arrow in his chest.

No. No. No way. I couldn't do it. I was no shieldmaiden. I didn't even have a shield!

While I was dithering and sniveling, two old men shoved past me to roll the injured warrior onto a stretcher, then started to haul him back toward the stairs. I couldn't see their faces in the dark, but I knew that they had to be two of Aldmore's recruits.

Those men were running out onto the Wall under my orders. I had talked them—and my kids, too!—into marching into a war zone. I was going to have to talk myself into it too.

In the end, I wound up over-intellectualizing the whole thing. I told myself that what I saw out there on the Wall was horrible, but realistically, it wasn't anywhere near certain death. If it was, Aldmore and his ancient warrior-buddies would have been dead and buried long ago. Anyway, it's not like my own world had been risk-free. Every day you read about someone getting slaughtered on the highway, but reading about it never made anyone stop driving. Back home I'd driven on icy, dangerous mountain roads lots of times and I'd never really been scared—or ever had a reason to be scared, either.

Well—except for that last time, of course.

If I didn't figure out a tactical plan quickly, my brain would turn into terrified mush. The simple facts were these: the Deeping Wall is maybe three hundred feet long. There's a big tower at each end of the Wall. One was at my back, its twin stood at the opposite side. I figured that if I ran all the way to the other tower, screaming, "Vesper fire" every minute or so, I'd eventually pass within earshot of every man on the Wall.

While I was trying to nerve myself up, I noticed that some of Gamling's pinch-hitter pikemen were huddled close to me at the top of the stairs, their pikes clutched uselessly to their chests. Before I could freeze up or talk myself out of doing anything, I sidled over and slapped the arm of the closest pikeman. "Why are you guys just standing here? That's not sorcery—it's just vesper fire! Will you let a bunch of orcs deceive you?"

The scared young farmboy—no Luke Skywalker, he—looked as startled as if a daffodil had reared up and bitten him. I yelled once again, louder, "It's just vesper fire! Get to your posts!" and this time some of his buddies noticed me back. Some of the bona fide warriors were also turning to look at us, and they would soon see that the newbie pikemen weren't doing anything. If these farmboys didn't mend their ways real quick they'd be sunk in shame forever.

Well, boo hoo.

Elbowing roughly through the confused pikemen, I stepped out onto the narrow Wall that had seemed so broad by daylight. It felt like walking into a pitch-black alley crammed with angry gang-bangers. To get to the opposite tower I would have to thread my way through a crowd of distracted warriors who were brandishing razor-sharp swords. The defenders weren't exactly shoulder-to-shoulder but they kept lunging back and forth without warning. If I wasn't extremely careful and lucky I could get sliced up by my own people.

Probably the enemy couldn't see much through the smoky haze either but they kept firing arrows anyway. Our guys couldn't see them either, but everybody knew what to do—shoot and keep on shooting.

The warriors had set up a line of thick boards behind the parapet as an extra defense, but believe me, propped-up barrel staves aren't very reassuring when you know that people are shooting at you. Arrows were constantly thudding into the parapet and the boards—and sometimes they arced all the way over them and hit one of the warriors. There was an awful coppery smell all around me that I thought at first was from the chemicals from the rockets, but the real explanation was much worse—it was the odor of human blood.

Go. Go. Go.

I inched forward through the warriors, and every time one of them shifted his attention from the orcs to me, I'd stand on tiptoe and scream into his face any arguments that came into my head—"It's not sorcery, it's an orc trick!" "C'mon, you've seen vesper fire before!" and even "Lord Aragorn says that it isn't magic!"

As the fighting grew more fierce, the warriors didn't dare allow themselves to be distracted either by sorcery or by me, although somebody did yell once, "Gríma's Bane says it's a trick." A couple of times I even heard, "Who let that girl onto the Wall?"

Over the yelling and the thunk-thunk-thunk of the arrows I could hardly hear my own voice, and I could feel myself getting hoarse from all the screaming. I think it actually helped that a lot of the Rohirrim knew me from the trial. They'd decided then that I was a truth-teller, so it must have made it easier for them to believe me in the heat of battle.

Sometimes life's funny that way.

By the time I got about halfway to the other side, the opposing army must have figured that we'd been softened up enough for a direct assault. I heard a lot of yelling and roaring, so I looked down into the Deeping Coomb and saw that orcs were charging toward us carrying ladders to scale the Wall.

I'm sure you're thinking, "Just push 'em over!" and of course our warriors did—but between the volleys of arrows, the gunpowder haze, and the exploding rockets, some of the Uruk-Hai managed to scramble up to the top of the Deeping Wall. Our men wound up fighting hand-to-hand against monsters with the hides of snakes and the teeth of sharks.

That was no place for me!

Pulling my sodden skirts up to my knees, I ran in sheer panic toward the far tower. Thankfully I was pretty close to the line of Haldir's Elves—I could already see their fishscale armor glittering in the dark.

Still yelling with what was left of my voice, I'd almost reached the Elves when a man got killed right in front of me.

He must have been one of the Northern Cousins, because I heard him cursing in that Down East accent of theirs at the orcs, at the Dunlendings and probably at Saruman himself. A bolt of lightning split the sky and for just an instant I could see him clearly. Greasy dark hair and a scraggly beard half-covered his surly features as he brandished his pike toward the enemy. Then a gigantic arrow struck him right above the shoulder blade and catapulted him over the side of the Wall. The terrible sound of his long gurgling "Yeeeahhh!" froze me with horror where I stood.

Then adrenaline kicked in and every nerve in my body screamed 'RUN RUN RUN'!

I pushed, shoved, and clawed my way through rows of shiny elven archers toward my only possible refuge—the stone tower looming so tantalizingly in front of me. In my panic, I would probably have tripped and catapulted myself right into the Deep if I hadn't been guided by a series of those nearly identical Elves.

As I lunged frantically toward the big oak doors of the tower, I was grabbed at the last second and held back by a pair of strong arms.

"BARBARELLA!"

Whipping my head around, I saw that it was Legolas, so I didn't try to bite him and escape. Even blood-smeared and with raindrops dripping from his long hair, he was still perfectly poised and unflappable. I looked for Aragorn too, but no dice. Not much hope of spotting him, either, in the midst of all those tall Rohirrim.

Over the screams and the clanging, Legolas was yelling at the top of his voice. "WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT SARUMAN'S WEAPON? DO YOU KNOW HOW TO DEFEAT IT?"

I plastered my body against the tower door, desperately hoping that it would make me a smaller target. How to defeat Saruman's weapon? Oh…yeah. That was the obvious question, all right. I'd been so busy screaming about what Saruman's rockets weren't that I hadn't even considered how to defeat what they were. Surely I knew enough basic science to give Legolas some kind of an answer.

Yeah, surely I did. In the absolute worst of all possible times and places I would have to wrack my poor feeble brain to come up with some kind of clue.

Think, Barbarella, think! Crank up those little gray cells!

"Ummm…Saruman's weapon is a rocket, a tube propelled by a combustible explosive," I finally wheezed in what was left of my voice. "It was first invented by the Chinese, who used it to make fireworks for their celebrations. Later on Europeans used it for military purposes in guns and cannon, and called it gunpowder…."

Legolas was staring at me as if I was a lunatic...and he may have been right. Okay, enough of the History Channel. What did I know about rockets that was practical?

"It stands to reason that all of those rockets were made in Isengard. That means that the orcs had to haul them through the same kind of terrain that we went through—up and down hills and valleys, over plains, and fording rivers. Somehow they managed to get here without blowing themselves up, which is not the easiest thing to do when you're transporting unfamiliar hazmat."

Legolas managed a very creditable nod of understanding. "If you say so, Barbarella."

Sometimes it helps me to listen to myself think, and fortunately, this was one of those times. "The question is, how did they manage to keep their powder dry? They're even shooting off rockets in the rain!"

'Keep your powder dry?' Suddenly an image from a Wild West movie popped into my head. "Covered wagons! Those rockets were brought here in covered wagons! Somewhere in the middle of the enemy army there are orcs pulling big tubes—longer than a torch, and thicker—out of wagons covered with cloth or wood or something else that's impervious to water."

I jumped up and down excitedly and yelled, "And gunpowder is highly flammable! If you shoot a couple of fire arrows into those wagons they'll set off the explosives!"

Then I took a look out at the vast expanse of the enemy army swarming through the blackness of the Deeping Coomb and came down to Earth. "Is there any chance that you'll be able to hit those wagons in the dark?"

"I am an Elf of the Forest Kingdom. Most certainly I can." Legolas' lips quirked a little in the elvish equivalent of 'D'oh!' "But the Wall is no place for you, Barbarella. Go back now to the Hornburg." He pulled a burning torch from the wall of the tower (a relatively fresh one, I noticed), opened the tower door, and ran lightly up the stairs.

Of course I knew that the middle of a combat zone was no place for me—but how could I possibly reach the Hornburg without returning the same way I'd come?

"You must descend into the Deep," said a gruff voice from a little higher than waist-level. It was Legolas' dwarven counterpart, Gimli. In the absence of the wall torch that the Elf had just removed, my mortal eyes couldn't make him out very well, but there was no way that I missed seeing that great big axe of his, or the fact that it was running with blood clear down to the hilt.

"And how do I do that?"

"Use the flight of stairs right in front of you."

Of course—how stupid could I get? As soon as he mentioned them, I was able to make out white limestone steps only a few feet ahead of me. I'd seen those stairs by daylight, too. Then I realized that Gimli was asking me something. "Tell me, girl, do you know how Saruman's toys are made? What did you tell the Elf?"

"He didn't ask me about how they were made." That, I guess, is the difference between an Elf and a Dwarf. "But since you're interested, Gimli, I think what they're made of is 'black-niter firedamp-spark'."

Gimli's eyes seemed to glow as he said with a strange accent, "Aye, I suppose you could be right."

Hiking up my skirt so I wouldn't trip on that slippery limestone staircase, I gingerly made my way down into the Deep. About halfway down the steps it occurred to me that I must have answered Gimli in Dwarvish. I guess he wasn't used to human women speaking to him in his own language.

*************


	15. Elves in the Deep

**Usual disclaimers and thanks:** nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Happy Thanksgiving for my U.S. readers. Happy Weekend for everyone else.

Windy and 'S', my latest reviewers, complimented Barbarella by saying that she thinks 'logically' and 'really well under pressure.' Well, Barb IS the heroine, and it's no fun if the story's POV character curls up in a fetal ball and cries. Since she's a linguistics student, I think remembering 'The Star-Spangled Banner' and translating it in the middle of a battle isn't too unbelievable. But being able to sing the national anthem on-key…nah, that's a Sue.

**Section 15 Elves In the Deep**

When I reached the ground I could hear people moving around in the dark and firing arrows into the air. They had to be Haldir's Elves; who else could aim and shoot without even moonlight to see by? I couldn't imagine why they were shooting volleys blindly over the Wall like that—even Elves don't have X-ray vision—but they were the experts, so I figured they had to know what they were doing. I didn't hear any of the archers calling out to each other, either in Elvish or in Westron. I guess if you've worked together in the same squad for a thousand years you've got the whole routine down pat.

Once my eyes adjusted to the gloom of the Deep, I saw that there were several pale blue lights bobbing around not very far from me. As I got a bit closer I realized that what I was seeing was Elves wearing what seemed to be fluorescent necklaces or bracelets. I never found out whether the jewelry was magic or not, but I suppose it must have been. Finally, at the very edge of my vision, I spotted some twinkly yellow lights that didn't seem to be moving around. Could they be the lanterns that marked the bridge over the Deeping Stream? I thought I'd seen lampposts there earlier that day and they did appear to be in the right place.

When I started to walk toward the bridge I quickly discovered that I had a problem. The combination of slick mud, slippery wet grass, and treacherously-unstable pebbles could easily cause a nasty fall. If I tripped and turned my ankle I'd be stuck in the Deep until the battle was over. I wound up nervously inching along and sliding my toe in front of me before every step.

I was about halfway to the bridge (basically the point of no return) when I heard another loud, whistling, "SQEEEE!" right behind me.

Jerking my head around, I stared up at a giant, baleful red eye sketched out in the cloudy night sky. It was the trail of one of Saruman's rockets arcing right over the Wall at us.

My mind blanked out in sheer terror. Before I had time to flee in panic—and probably snap an ankle—I heard a tremendous "BOOOM" from the opposite side of the Wall. It was followed instantly by agonized shrieks and howls coming from the throats of hundreds of wounded, maybe dying, orcs and henchmen.

Legolas had made his shot.

"Yes!!!" I screamed, and even Haldir's Elves began to cheer. They might not have known exactly what had happened, but they did know that it was killing orcs, and that was good enough for them.

"—CRUMP—BOOM!!!"

At that very moment Saruman's last rocket hit less than fifty feet away from me. I was nearly thrown to the ground by the shock wave and a cloud of burning ash spattered me from head to toe. Choking and coughing from the harsh blast of sulfurous fumes, I slapped off the red-hot cinders as fast as I could before they could sizzle through my clothes.

I heard a scream and looked up to see that one of the elven archers was engulfed in a ball of flame. The poor guy's hair was on fire, and he couldn't put it out! His scale armor glittered like tinfoil crumpled in a campfire as he zigzagged back and forth, desperately flapping his arms in the air.

And then he charged right at me!!!

My first impulse was to dodge and run away. But intellect overcame instinct and I yelled at him in Elvish, "Get down on the ground! Drop and roll!"

I don't know whether the Elf actually heard me but he did drop and he did roll. By then he was only a few yards away from me, so I yanked off Guthrun's cloak and threw it over his head to stifle the flames. A few seconds later, his elven comrades ran up and essentially repeated my action with their own cloaks.

Absolute horror hit me as I realized what had just happened.

I had just seen a man burning to death!

I'd been only feet away from catching on fire myself!

That odor that I smelled was burning hair and flesh!

Rocking back on my heels, I clapped both hands over my mouth hard so I wouldn't throw up.

While I was shivering and sobbing, a silent quartet of Elves gently picked up the injured archer and carried him away into the Deep. Another Elf who was wearing a pointy helmet stepped closer to examine me.

"Girl, what are you doing here in the Deep?" He sounded like an officer, but I couldn't really tell for sure. It was too dark to make out his insignia and I doubt that I would have known it if I had.

"I'm trying to get to the Hornburg! But in this darkness I can barely see my hand in front of my face."

"You mortals do not have much night vision, do you?"

"Nope."

"Take this, then." Captain Pointy dropped something into my hand that felt like an oystershell, then stalked back to his main job of shooting arrows into the air.

I pried at the hinges of the seashell with my fingernails until I managed to get it open. There was a mirror inside that was kind of like the mirror in a compact—only it was glowing green like a Halloween glowstick. Great—now I had a flashlight! Holding my elven compact at knee level so I could get a good look at the ground in front of me, I eventually reached the bridge over the Deeping Stream.

And, I am very pleased to say, no more rockets got fired at us after that.

Once I crossed over the bridge I had to climb up a steep rocky slope to get to the Hornburg. When I finally reached the wall, I traced it back to the Rear-Gate, only to discover that the Gate was closed and barred. Of course it was—we were in the middle of a battle! But I wasn't about to turn back at that point. Banging my fists on the heavy wooden door, I yelled hoarsely, "Let me in! Let me in!"

Nothing happened. I waited impatiently. Still nothing. "Let me in! It's me, Barbarella!"

Finally I heard a lot of rattling, scraping, and thumping, and the Rear-Gate door slowly creaked open.

I could see light inside! Beautiful, beautiful torchlight—I'd really have to give Wilibald and Wiglaf major brownie points later. Replacing those torches had turned out to be absolutely essential.

Two strangers in armor—probably part of Erkenbrand's rear guard—were standing between me and the warmth. I glared at them and snarled, "C'mon, guys—it's raining out here! Do I have to take my shoes off first or what?"

Realizing that I was a poor harmless woman and not a band of ferocious orcs, the warriors sheepishly lowered their spears and let me pass.

*************

From the Rear-Gate it's only a couple of steps to the Hornburg tower. Most of the ground floor of the Burg is a granite-walled Hall with a high ceiling that the Lord of the Hornburg uses for his councils of war. Inside the Hall I found a line of fat beeswax candles burning on the central oaken table, so I was able to make out the white starbursts on the war banners hanging on the walls. Those starbursts are the symbol of the Westfold Marshall—that's Erkenbrand, the guy that Gandalf had ridden off to locate.

The Lord's Council Chamber was completely deserted, and after all the clanging and the yelling and explosions its silence was kind of creepy. I was exhausted after slogging up to the Keep, and so drained that I had to sit down on one of the wooden benches by the north wall—just for a few moments, I promised myself.

I was scraping the mud off my sodden slippers and trying to wring out my skirt when I heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the Rear-Gate. I raised my head and recognized Princess Éowyn, so I jumped up to meet her. There was a splash of fresh blood on her overtunic—not hers, I hoped. Could the Princess have been in combat while I was out on the Wall?

When she reached me, Éowyn looked up and down at the toasted grubbiness that was me and soberly pronounced, "You look terrible."

"Come on, Éowyn, don't say that to me—you're reinforcing those condescending sexist stereotypes you've always hated! No male warrior would ever say something like that after a battle to another man!" It was kind of embarrassing to hear what was coming out of my own mouth—I sounded just like my mother!

Éowyn's lips quivered with amusement as she answered with an otherwise straight face, "Very well, then. How does 'battleworn' sound?"

'Battleworn'? Yeah, that was definitely the word for it.

Pointless though I knew it was, I was automatically combing through my filthy hair with my fingers. My face was smudged with ash, my new gown blackened by cinders, my slippers were caked with mud, and I'm sure that I smelled like the sulfurous pit of hell. Meanwhile, outside of a few minor marks of battle, Princess Éowyn was still pristine and beautiful—just like Princess Leia after she climbed out of the trash compactor.

I plunked myself back down on the wooden bench I'd just vacated. "There's blood on your clothes! What have you been up to? I thought you were guarding the women and children down in the Glittering Caves."

"I was!" Wincing, Éowyn sat next to me and rubbed her right elbow. It looked like I wasn't the only one who felt 'battleworn.' "Do not concern yourself, it is only orc blood. Somehow one of the foul creatures got into the caves, so I had to slay him. You were right, I was of use there after all. But enough about me—how fare our defenders on the Wall?"

"I think they're doing okay, now that Legolas has blown up the orcs' rockets."

Even down in the Deep, it had been obvious that the defenders' morale had, uh, skyrocketed after the Big Bang. Which brought up a scary question—was Éowyn yearning to become one of those defenders? To be a true shieldmaiden had always been her dearest dream.

I watched her worriedly out of the corner of my eye as I ventured, "So, what are you going to do next?"

Éowyn shook her head and sighed. "I had thought to tell Théoden King that the orcs have found a way into the caves, but now that I am up here I understand that this is folly. Neither my uncle nor any other warrior dares grant attention to anything but the battle. I will have to go back to the caves and deal with any more orcs myself."

I was so relieved when Éowyn said that! At that point, hearing that she would only be dealing with 'any more orcs' sounded practically safe. When you come right down to it, all that Princess Éowyn and I were doing was taking care of the leftovers. Much as I hate to say it, the front line of a medieval battle really is 'man's work'—it's nasty, brutal, and dangerous. 'Woman's work' is what's left—pitching in to do whatever else is needed.

Which reminded me… "Yeah, I ought to get over to the Great Hall myself and check in with Guthrun. I haven't connected with her since early this evening, and I need to find out how she's doing."

As we stood up to leave, Éowyn said to me, "Can one of your young squires come with me to guard the caves? Perhaps you could spare Wulfhelm? I have seen him at sword practice—he is strong for his age and both nimble and canny."

"Great idea—go for it!" I answered enthusiastically. To be asked to help Éowyn was what Wulfhelm needed the most right then—it was a warrior's duty that would make sense to him. "He should be in the Great Hall now—you can swing by there with me and get him."

As we headed off to the Great Hall, Éowyn asked with a demure smile, "So, if we were male warriors, what do you think you would be saying to me after a battle like this?"

I didn't even have to think about it. "That's easy. I'd be saying, "Where's the ale?'"

Battle or no battle, we both laughed our heads off over that one.

*************


	16. When the Hurly Burly’s Done

**Usual disclaimers and thanks:** nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Thanks for all of your glowing reviews! Every comment is greatly appreciated. I've recently updated my bio to reflect the fact that I've been writing fan fiction for longer than you might think. All of my earlier stories were written for other fandoms and published in dead-tree fanzines.

**Section 16 When the Hurly-Burly's Done**

When I stepped into the Great Hall I was hit by a shivery "uhhhmmmm" that went on and on and on and didn't stop. It was a dull melding of the sound of many men moaning or sighing or biting off sobs. Hearing it was bad enough, but when I saw what was going on in the cordoned hospital zone, I nearly freaked out.

What had they done to my beautiful hospital?

The whole place was a mess! There were piles of sliced-up leather armor, heaps of dirty straw, and wads of bloody bandages spread untidily all around the front entrance. Had my recruits just tossed the garbage over the ropes and forgotten about it? And the smell! It was disgusting—an awful mixture of blood, bedpans, scorched hair and orc-stink.

After a moment of nauseated outrage I realized what had happened. The only staff that we had was a handful of healers plus two dozen old men and kids who were doubling up as stretcher bearers and medical orderlies. In a situation like this, you needed to cut corners. And they had.

"You'll have to find Wulfhelm on your own," I said hastily to Éowyn. "I've got a crisis here."

With a distinct expression of relief, Éowyn strode off, peering over the ropes to look for Wulfhelm.

Well, first things first.

"Wiglaf!" I shrieked as loudly as I could. Ow ow ow… after all that screaming on the Wall, my throat felt like it was cracking open and my voice was only a raspy creak. But Wiglaf's ears were pretty sharp, and he was used to women who were yelling at him to 'get over here right now!' So he came running from the back of the crowded hospital, Wilibald in tow.

"Yes, Barbarella?" the two boys chorused. Both of them seemed completely frazzled. Their faces were smudged with dirt, their tunics streaked with blood and their caps had gotten lost in the shuffle.

"Wiglaf, Wilibald, I want you to find me some big empty bags—feedbags, oatmeal bags, I don't care what sort of bags they are. All this trash has to be hauled away before it can make the wounded men get sick."

For a moment the kids gawped up at me, puzzled. This 'trash that can make men sick' business made no sense to them. But by that time they were used to my weird Barbarella-isms, so they exhaustedly touched their foreheads and staggered off on their new quest.

First off, those stacks of garbage had to go. 'Sterile' was an impossible dream, but this stuff was really nasty and it needed to get pitched immediately. As I gingerly prodded an oozing mass with the toe of my slipper, a parcel of bloody rags rolled open and something fell out. It was so crushed that at first I had no idea what it was, but after a few seconds I recognized it by the shape of the thumb.

It was a severed human hand.

After everything else I'd seen that night, I hardly screamed at all.

From then on I examined each piece of trash very carefully before I ventured to pick it up, so I hadn't made much of a dent in the pile by the time that Wiglaf and Wilibald reappeared with their arms full of burlap bags. Grabbing one of the bags I began to shove in chunks of biowaste and the boys hesitantly copied my example.

"Sorry, boys, but this has to be done," I ordered them. Both kids looked a little sickened. "Don't fill these bags up too heavy—I want you to carry all of this trash to the north corner of the Inner Court and stack it out of the way. Once you're finished, cover up the whole pile with clean straw."

That would get the garbage out of sight, anyway—the worse of it, at least. We didn't have enough time to scrub anything clean. This was all that you could do when you were stuck in the Middle Ages—or in Middle-earth.

Putting out this kind of trash was stoop labor of the absolute worst sort. I helped my kids with most of the pick-up, but had to hand off the trash-carrying and the straw-scattering; there were other problems that had to be resolved too.

I'd noticed right off that our hospital was stuffed past capacity; there wasn't enough room for everybody to lie down. The wounded men that we'd brought there were sitting or squatting in huddled groups, and the beds that we'd made so carefully out of piles of straw were nothing but a fond memory. It looked like there weren't enough blankets, either, and I could feel how chilly it had gotten in the Great Hall.

Audhumbhla and her daughter were squeezing up and down the main aisle of our hospital with trays of cups filled with something or other. Sliding my feet carefully along so that I wouldn't step on a half-conscious man, I sidled through the traffic jam to Audhumbhla and she wordlessly handed me a steaming cup. It turned out to be a kind of sweetened tea, so at least it did help my throat a little.

"Where's Guthrun?" I snapped at Audhumbhla. "She needs to do something about this mob or the place will explode."

Audhumbhla set down her tray on the floor with an audible clank and glared at me. "Guthrun is working to save the lives of the most badly wounded men. These 'kids' of yours have brought in many, many injured warriors. This is a good thing, a fine thing, but there are only three trained healers. Nobody knew where you were, so my daughter and I have been doing whatever we could think of to help."

Ow. She'd sure shut me up in a hurry.

I blew on my cup of tea to cool it and also to buy time to think up an answer. Then I asked more meekly, "Do you have any room in the kitchen?"

"My kitchen?" Audhumbhla wiped her hands on one of the cleaner spots on her apron and quavered, "What do you want with my kitchen?"

"I want to move our overflow patients there. First, because it's warm upstairs. Second, because anybody strong enough to climb up those steps is probably strong enough to be moved out of the hospital."

Audhumbhla's face crumpled. Even in the middle of a battle, filling up her kitchen with bloody, dirty men was an awful thought for a cook. "It will have to do, I suppose," she ultimately agreed. "My daughter can be of help—she knows which men are strong enough to be moved."

Audhumbhla's daughter (wish I could remember her name!) and I did a quick triage to find the patients that would be able to make it upstairs. Of course, none of them was actually 'strong'—any warrior who could swing a sword was still fighting up on the Wall. The men we chose were crutching along with the aid of sticks, or had thick bandages mittening their burnt hands, or were whitefaced from loss of blood. To a man, though, they still clamored to return to the battle, not to be sent off to a kitchen.

The Rohirrim are like that. But we women held firm.

As I watched her daughter lead a score of woozy, tottering, half-dressed men over to the Burg, Audhumbhla turned to me and said quietly, "Did you know that Fréalof was injured?"

Oh, no—not Fréalof! "No! What happened to him?"

Audhumbhla shook her head sorrowfully. "The poor lad was burnt by vesper fire."

My mind flashed back to that elven archer with his hair on fire, and there it stuck. I couldn't tear the image of those flames out of my head. "Where is he? I have to go and see him."

Audhumbhla grabbed me by the wrist and wouldn't let go. "No, you cannot do that. Guthrun is taking care of him, and she does not want anyone fussing over her shoulder."

No, of course Guthrun didn't want anybody else watching what she was doing—or trying to help her, either. It was dumb but it was the way she was. Could Guthrun's simples and salves really do anything for burns as bad as that? Was there really anything I could do to help?

I didn't know—but I did know that I'd do anything to try.

Just as I was telling myself that, I looked up and saw Faegan and Caedmund helping Osfrid lug a stretcher to the front entrance. My kids were both staggering—the patient on the stretcher was one of those giant fullback-types, and the two boys were tall for their age, but kind of spindly. In bulk, Wulfhelm probably surpassed both of them together. And in IQ too, I'm sorry to say.

By the time I intersected with the three, they'd put the stretcher down in the middle of the walkway. I made up my mind right then and there that unless this was a matter of life and death we weren't going to shove this wounded man off on Guthrun.

Stepping up, I asked Osfrid tersely, "So what's wrong with him?"

The old warrior's answer was equally short. "Éadwig's chest got smashed in with a mace."

I examined poor Éadwig, and saw that his face was pasty and sweating. He was conscious, though, and he wasn't frothing blood. He was moaning softly and clutching the stretcher staves so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. That meant that he was hurting really bad—no warrior of Rohan would show pain like that otherwise.

When I tried to figure out what that list of symptoms might mean, I came up with a blank. "Osfrid, what has to happen for this man to survive?"

"Mmmmm…" Osfrid sucked on his mustache thoughtfully. "Éadwig needs a brace over his ribs so his chest don't flail in, and then he needs to be propped up tight so he can keep on breathing."

It really sounded like this old guy had seen it all—probably including the procedure he'd just told me about. "In that case, let's do it ourselves." I grabbed a stave on Faegan and Caedmund's side of the stretcher and the four of us carried Éadwig to one of the few empty beds left in the hospital.

Looking back, I'm amazed that I was crazy enough to play doctor like that. But as it turned out, Osfrid did just fine after I gave him a little push. As a matter of fact, so did I. Bracing a chest isn't as difficult as you might think—you wouldn't believe what you can do with two stockings filled with sand. I will say, though, that Éadwig's courage must have been superhuman to endure our earnest ministrations without an anesthetic.

After we finished, I sat Faegan and Caedmund down, told them what had happened to Fréalof, and was very blunt about what we needed to do to save his life. Basically, we would have to control access to the healers. If a wounded man absolutely needed a healer to save his life or his limbs, we would take him to Fleta or Merth. Otherwise we would do what was needed ourselves.

"But we're not healerth!" Caedmund protested weakly.

"No, but you were taught the basic procedures. Now you're going to use those procedures on men who need your help. If anything goes wrong, I'll take the responsibility," I said firmly. I knew I could talk them into it; compared to Wulfhelm, Caedmund and Faegan were a pair of twigs—and as easy to bend. "Besides, we'll have Osfrid to assist us—he knows a lot about battlefield injuries."

They were dubious about it, but I was their Fearless Leader, so they followed orders. As it turned out, this E.R. business wasn't as bad as I'd feared—most of the wounded men who were brought in had arrows sticking out of them, not gaping sword wounds. You can do something for a man who has an arrow sticking out of him.

Mostly.

After they got over their nervousness, Faegan and Caedmund got a lot better at bandaging, and Osfrid, the old warrior who hadn't been wanted on the Wall, was a pearl beyond price in our hospital. Wilibald and Wiglaf backed up Audhumbhla, ran her errands, and helped her keep the lid on. I found out later that my third little, Drogo, was mixing potions for Guthrun.

As for me, after I managed to block out the fact that I knew next to nothing about medicine, I really started to roll. Once I actually reimplanted a Northern Cousin's two front teeth all by myself! He said they'd been knocked out only minutes earlier, so I rinsed them off, figured, "What the heck," and stuck them back into his gums.

Every now and then I saw some of Aldmore's recruits come in with a full stretcher and go out again with the stretcher still full, but shrouded with blankets. That was something that the kids and I weren't ready to handle, so I didn't ask about it. The old men were far more prepared to deal with the dead.

Somewhere around daybreak a horn call sounded that reverberated in the Deep like a gigantic tuba. Soon after that, I heard many horses and warriors clattering through the Great Gates and down the causeway. And then, silence.

Was this the end? Had that been a last-ditch charge of the Riders against overwhelming odds?

Sinking down onto a bale of straw, I tried to think up a plan. Whatever it all meant, we couldn't possibly evacuate to the caves now. There was no way that we'd be able to move all of the wounded.

Faegan and Caedmund came to sit next to me, pressing close on either side.

"What do you think ith happening, Barbarella?" Caedmund asked, his eyes wide.

"I don't know, kids. We'll have to wait and see."

I guess I wasn't looking very fearless just then, because Faegan patted my hand to comfort me. "Do not fear, Barbarella. I trust my King. We'll be all right."

Well, if he was wrong, at least I still had Toothpick. Of course there was no way I could use it to save myself or the kids, but at least I could make the orcs kill us quick.

It would have been nice if I'd been able to summon up as much confidence as Faegan. In the end, I guess that trust is what's left to you when knowledge fails.

*************

That soft bale of straw may have been a mistake, because believe it or not, my eyelids soon started to droop shut. Pain, horror, and the fear of imminent death take you only so far, and then you need a nap.

Some time later I heard people yelling in the Outer Court and my eyes snapped wide open. "Look, it is Erkenbrand! Marshall Erkenbrand has come! The Lord of the Hornburg has returned with his Riders!"

The cavalry had arrived! It was just like a movie! And then I remembered what Gandalf had said: "I go to summon Erkenbrand. Look for me at the dawn of the fifth day."

Had it really been only four days?

When the Riders returned to the Hornburg I knew without having to see them that we had won. These were Riders of Rohan, after all—they were noisy in victory. Their whistles, war-whoops and shouts of joy were almost as loud as Saruman's rockets. Wounded or not, our patients all wanted to jump up and down and cheer too. Even sour-faced Merth cracked a smile.

Now maybe I could go and find out how Fréalof was doing.

*************

Unfortunately for me, with all those big guys charging around in armor I wasn't able to move a step. Finally I saw Aldmore and Alfwine shoving their way toward me through the excited crowd. Both of them were still in pretty good shape except for scrapes and bruises, bloodshot eyes from the gunpowder haze—and of course Alfwine's sunburn.

Eventually they fought their way through the confusion to the bale of straw where I was trapped.

"Barbarella, you have to come with us to the Outer Court," Alfwine yelled over the hubbub. "Théoden King is going to make a victory proclamation to the people of Rohan."

I'd spent hours in the midst of pain and suffering and I was in no mood for a celebration. "You go, Alfwine. There are too many wounded men here, and this doesn't feel much like a victory to me."

"You have been summoned by Théoden King, so you must go," said Aldmore. "Our King wishes to honor the captains who fought for Helm's Deep."

"But I'm not a captain," I protested.

"Of course you are! Didn't we go through all this before?" Alfwine retorted. "Do it for us. For Aldmore's friends and for Barbarella's Kids."

Then Aldmore the old warrior placed a grubby hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry, girl, but this is what victory always feels like. Men die, but Rohan endures."

How was I supposed to argue with that? Especially since I was outnumbered four to one. Faegan and Caedmund were bouncing up and down, all enthusiastic about the idea too.

So, lurching to my feet, I marched wearily off to the Outer Court alongside Alfwine and Aldmore, who were vigorously elbowing warriors out of our way. As we walked, Aldmore filled me in on how this Rohirric custom was supposed to work. It seemed simple enough—you went up to the King when your name was called, you kissed his hands, and that was it. It sounded like a graduation ceremony, only without the diploma.

*************


	17. A Kiss Is Just A Kiss

**Usual disclaimers and thanks: nothing is mine, etc., etc**. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Here's the ceremony! Just because it wasn't in Lord of the Rings doesn't mean it couldn't have happened. Also, I've done my best to get the 'medical bits' more or less right. Hope you liked that, even if it got kinda gruesome. By the way, I asked a doctor friend—honey actually can be used as an antibiotic!

**Section 17 A Kiss Is Just A Kiss**

When we reached the Outer Court I took a long sweet breath and began to be glad that I was there. It was almost noon and finally I'd reached sunlight! There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the birds were singing, and a breeze was ruffling my hair. I hadn't realized until then how much I'd been brought down by the clammy cold and the darkness in the Great Hall. Not to mention the smells! You could still smell gunpowder, but at least the smoky haze had blown away.

The Outer Court was filling up with men in armor—the bronze leaf-mail of the Riders of Rohan, the leather surcoats of the pikemen, and the makeshift padded vests thrown together for the pinch-hitting farm boys. As far as I could see, I was the only woman in attendance. Other than me, only the warriors were present.

All around me there was an atmosphere of glad anticipation, and every man had the same grim smile on his face. They had all fought so valiantly—it was only right that Théoden King should proclaim to them how well they'd done.

We'd won. We'd won. We'd really won.

Aldmore put one hand on my shoulder and steered me through the excited mob, with Alfwine right behind us. Apparently we were all supposed to form a circle around the big statue of Helm Hammerhand, which had been crowned for the occasion with a wreath of daffodils. Looking around, I noticed that most of the warriors on the inside of the circle were the high mucky-mucks—the Marshalls and the great captains. Did Aldmore, Alfwine and I really belong in exalted company like that?

The three of us wound up squeezed between Biram, who's one of Théoden's junior captains, and a tall scar-faced warrior whose battered greaves were blazoned with starbursts. Erkenbrand's man, obviously. I saw that Biram's shoulder was oozing blood, so I hissed at him, "After the ceremony, go to the healers and get your arm bandaged."

The young warrior gave me a hangdog look, as if only a killjoy like me would be mean enough to point out that he was wounded. Hah! Wait till Guthrun got her hands on him!

Looking around the circle, I caught sight of Prince Éomer, who was standing on the opposite side of the circle. He seemed uninjured—and so did the black-haired pikeman standing next to him. Éowyn's brother and the glowering Northern Cousin were staring fixedly at the statue of Helm Hammerhand so that they could both pretend that they didn't know that the other man was there.

We had an elven contingent in the Outer Court too. Standing apart from the rest of us, some of the Lothlorien archers had lined up in formation on the Deeping Wall stairs. If any of those Elves had been wounded, I certainly couldn't tell it from their appearance. They all looked the same—proud and glittery—and their blue capes were so clean that you'd think they'd never been worn, let alone fought in. Captain Haldir, of course, was standing in front of his archers at the foot of the stairs.

I'd been anxiously scanning the crowd for Aragorn, and finally spotted him and his friends at the side of the circle nearest the Elves. Aragorn too seemed to have gotten through the battle without a scratch—but he was very dirty and very, very tired. On the other hand, Legolas seemed relaxed and cheerful. When he noticed that I was staring at him, he smiled smugly and gave me a quick 'thumbs up.'

Poor Gimli, who stood next to him, was probably too short to see much of anything in that mob of tall warriors. What he should have done was join the elven archers on the stairs, but I'm sure that convincing him to do that would have been a non-starter. Gandalf's forehead was creased with a wrinkled frown and he looked a trifle impatient, as if he was in a hurry to rush off and start on something far more important than what we were doing.

Well, tough. The men of Rohan had won a great victory and now they were going to par-TAY!

The sound of many voices rose up as the crowd parted to let Théoden King enter from the Inner Court. Flanking him on his left was Gamling, silent as ever. Háma was on his right. Since Captain Háma had been stabbed by an orc during the evacuation, he still looked pretty weak and woozy, but his son Haleth was at his side to support his dad if necessary.

Just as Théoden reached the foot of the statue, Princess Éowyn slipped into place alongside her brother. She seemed pretty nervous, as if—like me—she didn't feel that she belonged there with the real warriors. I waved at her to show that I was present too, but Aldmore elbowed me and I dropped my hand.

Then Théoden turned to face his people, raised his arms in the air to quiet the crowd—and threw us a big, fat curveball.

"Warriors of Rohan, this is a day we shall always remember," he proclaimed in a carrying, regal voice. "Last night our people were defended from the hatred of an implacable foe not only by the valor of our own countrymen, but also by the dauntless strength of strangers. On this day it is not fitting that the King of Rohan should receive your honor. Rather should I honor the brave captains who fought for us all."

And then, before our surprised murmurs had a chance to die down, Théoden King turned to Gamling, raised one of Gamling's hands to his lips, and kissed his knuckles.

As usual, Gamling said absolutely nothing—but his eyes opened up so wide that they nearly dropped out.

Right after that Théoden pulled the same thing on Háma. I think that Háma might have keeled over then and there if his proud son hadn't been surreptitiously propping him up. But no, Théoden must have known that his old friend was weak from his wounds, so I'm sure he would have given Háma a hand if he'd needed help.

Stepping away from the statue, Théoden King came forward to approach the rest of us. Just before he reached the edge of the circle I whispered in a panic at Aldmore and Alfwine, "What do I do now?" Neither of my escorts got a chance to answer, because I was the one that the King first stopped in front of.

For the second time in my life, I was receiving Théoden King's complete attention. Once again, it was scary. His face was kind but stern and his gold-engraved armor showed the scrapes and nicks caused by the weapons of the enemy. "Barbarella, daughter of Naomi, you have come from afar to aid my people. Let no one doubt now or ever that you have saved the lives of many of my men."

And then the King bent over my hand and kissed it! King Théoden himself!

I'd never had anyone kiss my hand like that—let alone a King!

Much later, Alfwine kindly assured me that I hadn't really resembled an open-mouthed carp—I'd just looked like a plain, ordinary human idiot.

As the King proceeded around the circle that surrounded him, he addressed each warrior by name and spoke a few gracious words to him before brushing his lips on the back of the man's hand. By the time that Théoden reached his captains, they'd all prepared themselves to accept this unexpected gesture of thanks with something resembling aplomb. I could have managed some aplomb too if he hadn't picked me out first. Give the handmaiden a heart attack, why don't you?

It looked like Théoden King was working his way up the ladder in rank, from captains to Marshalls. One of the last Rohirrim in line was a tough old bald guy who was wearing a winged helmet and a silver-starred fur cloak. He was probably Marshall Erkenbrand himself.

When the King reached Captain Haldir I suddenly understood how shrewd he'd been to turn the usual Rohirric custom of thanksgiving upside down. There was no way that an Elf or a Wizard was going to bow down to a mere mortal man. As it was, Haldir had a stiff, "cooties" sort of look on his perfect face when Théoden's mouth touched his fingers. He bore the distressing experience most Elf-fully, though.

Aragorn, on the other hand, smiled warmly at Théoden and accepted our King's kiss as regally as it had been given. "Théoden King, I thank you for this honor. As I was once before, I am proud to fight alongside the King of Rohan."

Wow! What a guy! If he wasn't the Once and Future King, then who was?

Instead of allowing the King to kiss his hand, Gandalf reached out and placed his fingers on the top of Théoden's head as if he was giving him a blessing. And maybe he was.

For whatever reason, Théoden chose to leave his own blood relatives to the very end. In spite of having all the time in the world to prepare himself, Prince Éomer blushed a bright pink when the King bent over his hand. He may have blurted out something silly, too, because I saw Éowyn give his shin a little kick.

And as for Princess Éowyn?

The King understood, even if she didn't, that Éowyn too had been one of his commanders during the Battle of Helm's Deep. He kissed her hand and then spoke so loudly that we all could hear, "Éowyn, my sister-daughter, I gave to you a task that was needful but which offered no renown. This duty you have fulfilled with great honor and courage."

When she heard the words of her King, Éowyn's back snapped straight and she held her chin very high. Then, like a true Warrior Princess, she answered him, "Whatever my people need of me, that will I do."

No matter how long or how little a time that either of us lived, neither Éowyn nor I would ever forget that glorious moment.

As soon as the big ceremony was over I excused myself from the party and went back to my hospital. Yes, of course there was a party. These were the Rohirrim, after all. They'd won a great battle, they were feeling good, so naturally they threw a party. And what's more, although the rest of our supplies were basically running on fumes, someone had managed to find a few kegs of ale to liven up the festivities.

Within the Inner Court there were several other people who weren't up to a celebration. I saw warriors who'd hit the wall hours earlier and were snoring like tired puppies. They'd stripped off their armor, their helmets, and sometimes their boots to crash out on the flagstones of the courtyard.

It was finally sinking in on me that the Battle of Helm's Deep had actually happened. Looking back, the whole thing seemed almost unbelievable—and not because the orcs that we'd fought had been creatures out of heroic fantasy. No, it was because those orcs had been trying to slaughter me and everyone around me! You just don't want to believe that someone would actually want to kill you like that. It was also sinking in that I could have been killed at any time during that midnight run of mine—just as so many other people had been killed up on the Wall. Only in the full light of day was I actually able to face that realization.

And then, of course, I shoved the whole thing into the back of my head and tried not to think about it any longer.

By the time that I reached the Great Hall the chaos level had gone down quite a bit and the hospital beds were beginning to empty. And just in the nick of time, too. Our trio of middle-aged healers would have collapsed if they'd had to take care of all those people any longer.

Wives were popping up from the caves to snatch away our patients and the wounded men that we'd stashed in the kitchen were tottering around with the help of their buddies. Apparently a Rider of Rohan believes that he's fit for duty as soon as his bleeding slows.

What I wanted to do was hunt down Guthrun ASAP so I could find out what was going on with Fréalof. She had to be someplace near, but where?

As I worked my way to the rear of the hospital, I wound up passing the really bad cases. Nobody would be able to scoop these men up and take them away anytime soon—these were the ones who had wounds you wouldn't even want to read about, let alone see. Some of these guys would soon die, others would live on as cripples like Ingemer. It took all the strength I had to keep walking without starting to cry, but I managed somehow. Either I'd gotten really, really strong, or I'd gotten really, really numb.

And then I looked into a dark corner and spied some of my kids clustering around a straw bed. The bed was still occupied, and that pitiful lump under the bedcovers was Fréalof.

I couldn't see much of him—blankets covered most of his body, and bandages swathed his arms and hands. But I got a good look at his head. Half of his face was puffed up like a giant pink balloon, the other half looked like raw liver. A woman's kerchief had been draped over the oozing blisters that covered his poor, hairless scalp.

Somebody—probably my kids—had stacked up a couple of bales of straw to wall off Fréalof's bed and give him a measure of privacy. Wiglaf and Wilibald, my two little kids, were curled up on top of the haystack. Eyes closed and drowsing, Faegan and Caedmund sat cross-legged on the floor, and Fréalof's brother Elric was crouching at the side of the bed. His face was pale as wax and a line of tears ran down his cheek.

Fréalof started to whimper a little when I approached. He was staring glassily up at the ceiling and seemed to be more or less awake. I was glad to see that both of his eyes seemed to be functioning, but his eyeballs were as red as blood.

Elric dipped a cloth into an earthenware bowl set beside him and carefully sprinkled a few droplets of water into his brother's slack mouth. Glancing up at me, he said in a low voice, "Guthrun told me to keep giving Fréalof water a few drops at a time."

At that point I was too stunned to think up anything to say that made sense. "Good. That's good. You're doing real good, Elric."

Leaning back against the wall, I desperately riffled through the little I could remember about modern medicine. I had a terrible feeling that burns like Fréalof's would be a big challenge even for the Hershey Medical Center Burn Unit. How could Guthrun possibly heal him with nothing but herbs and simples?

For the very first time I wished that Mom had come with me to Middle-earth. She was the _Lord of the Rings_ fan, not me—she knew those books backwards and forwards. Maybe she would have figured out something I'd missed that would help poor Fréalof.


	18. The Erlking

**Usual disclaimers and thanks:** nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

Here I am, finally. For me, Christmas vacation was a vacation from the Internet and a time to do offline work !

Again, many thanks to my reviewers. I really love the longer reviews (thanks Rhyselle—glad I managed to harrow up your heart! I intend to keep harrowing.)

Important news next section…

**Section 18 The Erlking**

Just as I was beating myself up again because I hadn't taken pre-med at CU, the rest of my kids woke up and saw that I'd returned. I heard Wiglaf and Wilibald rustling on top of their haystack; the big boys scrambled to their feet so they could peer past the rope cordon and see what else was going on in the Great Hall.

Faegan and Caedmund would make lousy office workers—if they're not running around under the open sky they start to fidget almost immediately. Faegan in particular was practically bouncing with curiosity. "What happened at the King's ceremony? Did you see your kinsman Aragorn there? He wasn't hurt, was he?"

Feeling somewhat overwhelmed, I'd barely opened my mouth when Caedmund bounced a notch higher and asked breathlessly, "Did you really kith the hand of Théoden King?"

"Yes, Lord Aragorn was at the ceremony, and yes, he's fine," I snapped back. "But no, I didn't kiss the King. If the two of you shut up for a couple of minutes, I'll tell you all about it—LATER!"

Those two kids have a really crummy sense of timing! Probably a touch of ADD.

Figuring out from my evil glare that they'd messed up big time, Faegan and Caedmund backpedaled fast and hunkered down—quietly—onto the stone floor.

Before I even had time to settle myself, Wilibald slid down from the haystack and whispered forlornly into the folds of my skirt, "Is Fréalof really going to die? When Guthrun came by she said that his burns were 'hopeless.'"

Hearing that was a real shocker—both Faegan and Caedmund gasped audibly when they heard Wilibald's little bombshell. I guess the rest of the kids hadn't been within earshot when Guthrun strolled by to croak her usual doom.

That old woman has always been the type who'd stare right through the silver lining just so she could find the dark cloud. Distractedly combing through Wilibald's blond hair with shaking fingers, I announced as loudly as my raspy voice would allow, "Okay, kids, listen up."

I was my kids' acknowledged leader and commander, so of course they all dropped what they were doing to listen to me—even Elric.

"Do you know what the word 'hopeless' means?" I asked in my best 'leader voice.' "It means that you have decided to give up hope. But we are not going to do that. We will never, never, never give up. As Princess Éowyn has often told me, 'There is always hope.'"

Just as if I was a real captain, every one of those kids cheered up when they heard what I said. Faegan and Caedmund stamped their feet, seemingly more than ready to charge at any enemy that I might indicate. Wilibald let go of my skirt and rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, and even Elric nodded respectfully.

I bent down and whispered to Elric, "I'm heading off to find Guthrun now. We need to know exactly what she'll be able to do for Fréalof."

Elric reached up and clutched at my hand, squeezing it so hard that he crunched my fingers. "Please make her say that she can heal my brother."

"I'll try, Elric. I'll really try." That was a pretty feeble promise, I know, but it was the best one that I could give without lying to him.

I was just heading off when Fréalof suddenly heaved himself into a sitting position and started to scream. "Mother! Mother! I want my mother!"

Elric and I both lunged at Fréalof to prevent him from further injuring himself. Grabbing Fréalof's bandaged wrist far more tightly than I would have dared, his brother ordered, "Don't move, you'll break open your blisters! Mother's not here, but I'm here. I'll always be here for you."

'Not here'? There was a real understatement. The boys' mom had sliced her hand on a scythe and died of tetanus when Fréalof was only seven. Their father? Orcs, even earlier. As long as I'd known them, they'd had nowhere to stay but the stables and nobody to take care of them except each other.

Miraculously, Fréalof stopped thrashing and moaning and began to quiet down. As Elric gently eased him back into the straw I heard Fréalof mutter softly, "Brother…I have my brother."

*********

When I found her, Guthrun was making up more potions at her trestle table and our young banner maker Drogo was teetering on a high wooden stool right beside her, pounding herbs. Even after running errands all night, he still seemed enchanted by all this mixing and concocting and stirring. It's the artistic temperament, I guess.

Coming up behind Guthrun, I said loudly, "It's me, Barbarella. I need to speak to you for a moment. Alone."

You know, Guthrun can usually hear people perfectly well when she really wants to. The old healer gestured for me to follow, then pushed herself from the table and stumped over to a high-backed wicker chair in a corner that she must have stashed for her brief, precious rest breaks. There was only one chair in that corner, so I would have to stand. I didn't object, although to tell the truth, my feet had been shrieking for hours. This would be the best chance I'd get to worm a straight answer out of Guthrun.

Placing myself right in front of her so she couldn't dart off, I started up immediately with the third degree. "Level with me, Guthrun. How much of a chance does Fréalof really have? His burns must be pretty severe—I've seen what Saruman's rockets can do."

Guthrun gave me the same pitying look that I remembered from when Théodred was dying back in Edoras. "I can ease his pain, at least, but I shall not peddle false hope to you. The burns caused by Saruman's fire are the worst I have ever seen."

It sounded like she was trying to palm off one of her weasel answers again.

Grabbing the arms of her wicker chair, I shouted into Guthrun's deaf old ears so she'd be sure to hear me. "Is that all? You're the best healer we've got! Isn't there anything more you can do to help Fréalof?"

Half closing her bleary eyes, Guthrun blew out a noisy breath and slowly pondered my question. For a moment I actually felt sorry for the old girl. Like me, she'd been working nonstop since the day before the battle, and unlike me, she was no spring chicken. Her grey hair was stringing down in scraggly tangles and she looked more than anything like a witch on a blasted heath.

Finally she shoved at me with one bony knee and creakily stood up. Then she pulled a chased-leather bottle from one of her apron pockets and held it out. "If you are truly determined to help the boy, then make him drink all of this at once. It is a kindness that I cannot offer him, for I have taken the Healer's Oath."

I accepted the bottle from her arthritic fingers, twisted off the agate stopper, and cautiously sniffed its contents. That smell was something else that I remembered from the time when Théodred was dying. Guthrun had just given me syrup of poppy. After another second or so, I realized what she was driving at.

Guthrun had just told me to kill Fréalof. That bottle held a lethal dose of narcotics.

Had I told you before that I'd seen awful things during the Battle of Helm's Deep? Well, that was true enough—but none of it could compete with that terrible moment.

I suppose I could have pitched a great big fit, or yelled and screamed, or even slapped her wrinkled face. But both of us were completely worn out, too tired even to argue. Anyway, what good would it have done me?

So I just said blankly, "I'll think about it," slid the bottle into my own belt pouch, and dragged myself back to Fréalof's corner.

When I got there he was drooling and snoring, his brother was still dripping water onto his lips, and the other boys were sacked out on the straw, dead to the world. I wasn't surprised. I'd seen grown men collapsed in piles from exhaustion—should I expect more from a bunch of kids?

Feeling light-headed and drained, I lowered myself painfully down onto the cold hard granite next to Elric. What was I going to do now?

I had to accept that there would be no happy ending for Fréalof. Even if by some crazy chance he managed to survive, his pain would go on for weeks and weeks, and in the end, his body would never work quite right again. What kind of life was that for a young warrior of Rohan? And if the poor kid was doomed to die anyway, surely it was cruel to make him endure pointless days of suffering.

I unstoppered the leather bottle that Guthrun had inflicted on me and carefully calculated the dosage. Had it been four tablespoons for Prince Théodred? Fréalof was a big boy, of course, but Théodred had been a full-grown man. In the end I poured about three tablespoons of poppy syrup into Elric's bowl and watched him sop up more water and drip it into Fréalof's mouth. Three tablespoons wouldn't be enough to kill, but they should be enough to dull Fréalof's pain.

Sometimes it seems that hope just won't let you quit, even though you know that you can't win.

I've often wondered how Aragorn really felt about leading the Fellowship of the Ring. As its leader, he had to make decisions knowing that they were likely to get people killed and not knowing whether the decisions were right. When he let Frodo head off into Mordor with no one but Sam to help him, Aragorn had to realize that he was probably sending Frodo off to his death. He must have hated that. He must have hated himself.

I mean, how could he not?

*********

There wasn't anything left for me to do after that. I was too tired and spacey to get up and work but I couldn't bear to bug out and desert Elric and Fréalof. Since I was the person in charge, there was nobody to say to me, "Barbarella, you need to go off now and get some sleep."

So mostly I just zoned where I sat, occasionally muttering, "Oh please, oh please," to the empty air.

I think that I was able to sense that we had an Elf among us before I actually saw him. Somehow you always notice the presence of Elves. It's as if the air tingles around them, like ozone after a thunderstorm. The Rohirrim call it 'enchantment'—I guess that's a good enough word for it.

Yes, you can sense that 'tingle' with Legolas too, although I was too scared during the battle to pay attention to minor issues like enchantment. But by that time the Battle of Helm's Deep was over. When Haldir of Lothlorien glided by, the low hospital "uhhmmm" dissipated like mist. He was stardust, he was golden, and we all recognized that we were in the vicinity of someone who was more than human.

As he walked through our hospital, Haldir was scanning to his right and his left almost incredulously, as if he'd never seen such things in all his centuries as an Elf. I was a stranger in Helm's Deep too, and for one awful instant I had a glimmer of what he was seeing. It was a nightmare out of the Dark Ages—wounded men groaning in piles of straw like animals in a stable, bedraggled healers drenched with blood and filth like medieval barber-surgeons, and nothing, nothing that was clean and sterile as it should be. Not to mention the smell…

I felt humiliated and vile. Whatever could an Elf like Captain Haldir want in our hospital? We weren't taking care of any of the archers in his company, that was for sure—their comrades would never have surrendered a wounded Elf to our 'eye of newt, toe of frog' brand of healing.

Then it struck me—hadn't Lord Elrond saved Frodo with his elven magic powers? Maybe Haldir had come to heal our wounded!

If that was true, then Fréalof might have a chance.

Haldir was heading right toward our corner. I noticed that when the Elf-Captain passed by the 'bad cases'—the men who'd been chopped nearly into mincemeat by the orcs—he was as passionless and serene as a Gothic saint in a wooden triptych. Stirred by his 'Elf-presence', my groggy kids began to wake up. They were too awestruck to say anything, though, which was probably just as well. When it came to humans, this Elf wasn't a big fan.

I was torn between the delirium of hope and the horror of embarrassment. My stomach was doing jumping jacks, but I clambered up to my feet with all the dignity I could muster. I didn't want him to think that we were a bunch of unappreciative yokels.

Captain Haldir is actually just as tall as Éowyn's brother—although far more imposing. When he came up to me he had to tilt his head way down to look me in the eyes. Let me tell you, when an Elf stares at you it's a stunning experience. You get a big lump in your throat and you find yourself thinking, "if only, if only…"

And then he spoke, in the most musical, captivating voice that you can possibly imagine. "Barbarella, daughter of Naomi, there is something that I wish to ask of you."

Awestruck, I whispered, "Yes, sir?"

"Who gave you the jewel that you bear at your throat?"

What???

You want to know what it takes to break an elven enchantment? Anger. Plain, human anger. Had Captain Oblivious walked past and ignored all of those wounded men just so he could grill me about my necklace?

Without taking the time to think I blasted back, "What's the matter with you? Are you crazy? Look around you—warriors who fought at your side last night are suffering and dying here, and you ask me about a stupid piece of stone and metal?"

Uh oh. When I realized what I'd just said I slammed my lips shut so fast that I nearly bit my tongue. 'Suffering and dying' was not a topic that I wanted to yell about in front of the men who were doing it. But I was probably okay—I doubt that they could understand me. The Elf and I were speaking in Westron, which is not a tongue that most of the Rohirrim have mastered.

On the other hand, I **had** been pretty loud. Could I have woken up Fréalof? Darting down a worried glance, I was relieved to observe that he was still conked out in a drugged haze. His brother Elric was drowsing bolt upright right beside him with one palm pressed gently on Fréalof's chest.

"Of course I honor the sacrifice of these valiant warriors," Captain Haldir said with an air of reserved impatience. "What concerns me now is the pendant that you wear. It appears to be of elven workmanship, and it seems to be very old. The ancient jewels of my people are always of significance."

Long story short: he really didn't care about the wounded men. That just…sucked. But I wasn't going to yell again—my mother didn't raise any stupid daughters. If I wanted to have any chance of getting this guy to heal Fréalof, I'd have to make nice.

So once again, I recapped the same old story I'd told to Aragorn. "The necklace was given to me by my mother, Naomi. She's not an Elf and she's never met an Elf, although she certainly likes reading about them. I have no idea who originally gave it to her. In case you're interested, Mom lives in a place called Penn's Woods. I don't suppose you've ever heard of it?"

Captain Haldir frowned and shook his head. "You must have come from very far away. I know every wood there is in all the lands of the Free People, but I have never heard of Penn's Woods."

"Yeah, that's just what Aragorn said. And I didn't steal the Evenstar from him, if that's what you were thinking."

Haldir's eyes glittered like the blue topaz in my necklace—in other words, like sharp pieces of cold hard stone. "I never said that I thought your jewel was the Evenstar."

At that moment his tone of voice sounded extremely ominous.

An ancient jewel…always of significance… What did that remind me of?

Suddenly nervous, I blurted out, "My necklace doesn't belong to Sauron, does it?"

"No! It never belonged to him. And it is not wise to speak so readily of the Enemy." I noticed that one of Haldir's eyelids had started to twitch. So that's what it takes to get to an Elf—they must care a lot about that antique bling of theirs.

Before there was time for me to ask him another question, Haldir pulled himself up and said dismissively, "Clearly you have no knowledge about the origin of the jewel. I offer you my thanks and will ask no more questions." Without another word, he pivoted on his heel and started to march back the way he'd come.

I couldn't let him get away—he was Fréalof's only hope!


	19. When the Battle's Lost and Won

**Usual disclaimers and thanks: **nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose; all errors are mine.

To answer **TetraForce**'s review: People adjust to primitive surroundings quicker than you'd think. I had no power for two weeks after Hurricane Ike and I managed to live with it.

I think what may bother some fans is that Barbarella was never that interested in LOTR and, what's worse, can't see how knowing about it could help her solve her problems. Heresy!

**Section 19 When the Battle's Lost and Won**

After a few seconds of horrified shock, I screamed, "Wait! Wait!" and ran after him. Actually, 'ran' overstates it a little; 'hobbled' might be a better description. The night before, I'd pushed myself to the very limit. When I tried to run I discovered that my knees were trembling, my feet felt like fire every time they hit the ground, and I didn't have enough breath to run and yell at the same time.

So I ran.

Captain Haldir had a head start and his legs are much longer than mine, so I wound up chasing him all the way through the hospital, through the Great Hall, and into the Inner Court. The whole time, passersby were sneaking astonished peeks at me and the Elf I was pursuing. When Haldir passed him, one old man with prodigious white eyebrows started to hack and sneeze. Maybe he was allergic to Elves!

It wasn't much of a run—half a block, max—but I just couldn't seem to catch up to Haldir. And I was afraid that if he reached the Outer Court I might lose him altogether. So, thinking fast, I stopped and yelled out in Elvish, "Haldir! I didn't tell you before—the necklace has magic powers! Don't you want to hear about them?"

Golden hair swinging, Captain Haldir wheeled around to stare at me. Then he halted in his tracks and waited for me to catch up. By the time I tottered up to him I was gasping for breath and felt more exhausted than ever. Elves really are made of different flesh—he'd gone through the same battle that I did, and he still looked powerful and invincible.

Looking down his perfect nose at me, Haldir replied in the same language. "You did not speak before of magic, Girl-Who-Knows-Elvish."

I checked to my left and right and saw that many Rohirrim were within earshot—sleeping or sitting or helping a wounded comrade. But what the two of us were going to talk about would remain a secret, because nobody else would understand a word.

By then it was perfectly clear that Haldir had no intention of volunteering to help us—I'd have to con him into it somehow. I had no idea how to do that, but if I could keep him talking he might slip up and give me an opening.

Pulling out my Evenstar, I dangled it on its chain so that we both could see it twirl and glisten. One thing was for sure, this jewel was no cheap knock-off. When I gazed into its blue depths I felt like I was sinking into infinity.

"You know what, Haldir? The reason you never heard of Penn's Woods is because it's completely outside of Middle-earth. On the very first night I wore this necklace, it dropped me out of my own world altogether. The next morning I awoke on the plains of Rohan with no idea, then or ever, of how I arrived there."

"If you are from nowhere in Arda, then from where do you come?" Haldir looked like he was sucking on a lemon. He seemed to be chewing on the concept, but he hadn't quite digested it yet.

"We call it 'Earth.' It's like Middle-earth in some ways, unlike it in others. For example, there are no Elves there—and no magic." On general principles, I delivered my standard query: "Do you think I might have been summoned here for a reason?"

Haldir's frozen expression was unreadable—unreadable by me, anyway. Aragorn might have figured him out, I suppose. "I cannot say."

Well, déjà vu all over again! None of the High and the Mighty intended to give me a clue about my predicament. That really bit, but it wasn't my main objective. I swung my pendant tantalizingly right in front of Haldir's nose and asked, "You say that this necklace is significant to the Elves. So maybe I ought to hand it over to you?"

I could almost hear the gears grinding between Haldir's pointy ears, but eventually he shook his head. "No, the jewel was given to you—you should keep it."

You want to know what I think was going on just then?

My guess is that Captain Haldir loathed seeing an elvish artifact in the grubby mitts of a human being, but he wasn't willing to take responsibility for it either. That's not a particularly unusual pattern, by the way; I've seen it a million times back on Earth.

But at least we were still talking. Before Haldir had a chance to walk off again, I slipped in an innocent little question on him. "So that's how I came here. Why did you come here?"

This question, at least, was well within Captain Haldir's comfort zone. Smirking, he popped out what was obviously a prepared speech. "Long ago an alliance existed between Elves and Men. We fought and died together. We came here to honor that allegiance."

I had to think about that for a minute. So Captain Haldir and his archers had come to Helm's Deep for the sake of honor. It made perfect sense, actually. Since the day that I arrived in Middle-earth, everyone I'd met had been ruled by the desire for honor and dignity. Even Gríma.

"You fought and died together," I echoed him thoughtfully. Okay, I could work with that. In fact, it might even have given me an idea. It was probably a long shot, but then, what around here wasn't? "You know, for a while last night I was down in the Deep together with your archers. While I was there, one Elf was struck by a rocket and set on fire. I ran up and tried to smother the blaze by throwing my cloak over him."

Captain Haldir nodded, unsurprised. "Yes, I was told of this."

Choosing my words with care, I said to him, "The very same thing happened to one of my kids—he was horribly burned by one of Saruman's rockets. That was the boy who's covered with bandages. And what's even more horrible, Fréalof is only eleven years old."

At that point, Haldir surprised me—he actually looked like he cared. "That was Fréalof? He was a brave lad. Yesterday he brought water to my archers on the Wall."

'Was' a brave lad??? The first words that came to my mind were, "Aren't you being a mite hasty? He's not dead yet!" But no, I was going to make nice if it choked me. So I smiled coolly and quoted an oddly appropriate line from _Gunga Din_. "I hope you liked your drink."

Haldir couldn't think of a good answer to that one, and it stung him a bit.

Now for the hard part. From Oedipus versus the Sphinx to the Devil and Daniel Webster, winning a contest of words against a supernatural creature has never been easy. But I am my mother's daughter, which makes me a true heir to the fantastic.

Screwing my courage to the sticking-place, I stared Captain Haldir right in the eye and said, "Last night, I was willing to risk Saruman's fire to save your guy. Let me ask you, seeing that we're allies and all—what are you willing to do to save my guy?"

After that I said nothing more; I just waited for him to answer. My bet was that this would make it a matter of honor. I'm not familiar with Elves, but I know the Rohirrim and I'd watched a lot of samurai movies. Some concepts do tend to translate.

I guess you don't live for thousands of years without learning to figure out when you're being played. The warrior Elf's lips tightened into a thin line and his eyes squinched up with annoyance, but finally Haldir answered with reluctant admiration, "That was well asked. I shall do whatever I can to save him."

Jackpot! I could barely keep myself from jumping up and down in excitement. Captain Haldir was probably pissed off at me big time, but who cares? I'd saved Fréalof!

The run back to the hospital was just as hard as the run away from it, but going back I had a great big smile on my face the whole time. Since Captain Haldir still wasn't deigning to cut me some slack and slow down, all of the people in the Inner Court got to watch me chase after an Elf again. As I made the final turn toward the Great Hall, I looked up and saw Haldred exiting the Burg with a big metal cooking pot in his arms. I waved at him and he got so flustered that he dropped that great big pot right onto his feet. Sure hope it wasn't holding something scalding!

Even though I was puffing and panting I couldn't have been more than ten seconds behind Haldir, but when I reached our corner I discovered that he hadn't bothered to wait. He'd just walked over and scooped up Fréalof, blankets, straw, and all. So of course I had a situation on my hands. My kids, who had no idea of what was going on, had naturally sprung into action to keep him from kidnapping their injured friend.

When I first caught sight of him, Haldir was just standing there with Fréalof in his arms. Both of his feet were planted firmly on the floor and he looked about as movable as a tree. He seemed more annoyed than anything; he hadn't even bothered to unsheathe his sword. Fortunately, none of the boys were attempting to pull Fréalof away by force—I couldn't begin to imagine what that would have done to Fréalof's burns.

Elric must have literally tackled him right off, because he was clinging onto Haldir's knees for dear life. Faegan and Caedmund, impulsive as usual, had snatched up stretcher staves and were doing their best to hold a fully armed warrior Elf at bay with a pair of blunt sticks.

If I didn't clamp down fast, this confrontation was going to spiral out of control. Wiglaf and Wilibald would probably decide to leap off their haystack onto Haldir's head or something.

"Let him go, kids," I ordered in Rohirric. "Let the Elf go! It's all right, Elric. Captain Haldir is going to take Fréalof to be healed by the Elves."

Rocking back onto his heels, Elric let loose of Haldir so fast that you'd think the Elf's knees were on fire. Then he stared up at Haldir with an open-mouthed look of near-adoration that I might have mistaken for enchantment if I hadn't recognized it as dawning joy. Elric too understood that this gave Fréalof a real chance to be healed.

"Can I... can I go with him?" Elric asked brokenly in Rohirric, the only language that he knew.

Of course Captain Haldir didn't comprehend a word of what we were saying, and I'm sure he wasn't enjoying that ignorance one bit. I translated Elric's words into Westron and then told Haldir, "Elric is Fréalof's older brother. The two of them have never been separated before."

Gazing down calmly at the boy kneeling at his feet, Haldir nodded his assent to Elric's request. "He may come. You can tell him that I have a younger brother too."

As I relayed the message, Haldir actually smiled at Elric. I was sure then that everything would be all right. Everything was really going to turn out all right.

Wrapping Fréalof in his own cloak, Haldir cradled the boy in his arms as carefully as if he was holding a clutch of eggs, then headed out at his usual flank speed. Elric scrambled to his feet and trotted right behind him. As I watched the mismatched pair disappear into the distance, I had no doubt that Elric would be able to keep up with Haldir much better than I had.

I noticed that Faegan and Caedmund were both about to say something, but for once I beat them to it. "LATER!"

It was time for me to make another command decision. Plumping up what was left of the straw in Fréalof's bed, I said to myself, "Barbarella, you need to get some rest. Right now."

I sat down and settled myself until I got comfy. After a while I might even take that long-overdue nap.

I took another look around at my surroundings and began to feel much better, in spite of the messy heaps of straw and the ugly piles of medical debris. The wounded men we'd brought into our hospital hadn't seen it as a nightmare, and they hadn't thought that we'd treated them like animals. No, they'd felt honored and comforted by what we'd been able to do for them. And yes, I definitely think that we had saved some lives.

So this was what victory felt like. Aldmore was right—it felt good.

I had talked an immortal Elf into saving one of my kids.

I had thwarted the Wizard Saruman—twice—and I hadn't died!

I had given hope to Prince Théodred when he had none.

There was no point in kidding myself. I was stuck in Middle-earth forever. I would never see my world, my home, or my mom again. But in spite of that, I would strive to be happy.

But one loose thread still remained that I really wish I could have tied up.

I was almost certain Captain Haldir had recognized the necklace that I was wearing.

If my jewel wasn't the Evenstar—what was it?

**THE END**

_Author's note_: Yes, this is the end of the story. But a funny thing happened as I was writing it—I wound up liking Barbarella more than I thought I would, and I wanted to know how her story would turn out. So I decided to—yes—write a sequel. I've been writing like a maniac to finish the first draft (that's why I'm so late in posting this) but it will take a while to knock it into shape. (Adjectives are a good thing, but only in moderation.) I'll leave this story incomplete for now so I can announce the sequel when I start to post it.

The sequel will answer important unresolved questions like:

What's going on with Barb's Evenstar?

Is she actually going to ride a horse all the way to Minas Tirith?

Will she finally bag a canon boyfriend, and if so, who?

**I****n the meantime**, if you've ever wondered what Barbarella looks like, my beta eekfrenzy has done a beautiful set of story illustrations based on movie stills. Her portfolio can be viewed or downloaded as a PDF at:

http: // www. severalunlimited .com /barbarella/

(Paste the parts together--couldn't get the URL to post in one piece.) It's a large file so it will look like a white page at first, but give it time.

I would really appreciate it if you review her illustrations—and you can tell me what you think of my completed story too!


	20. Epilog

**Chapter 01 There's No Such Thing as a Happy Ending**

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy, Amedia and Rose. And thanks also to all of my reviewers-I love reading reviews!

Okay! The first chapter of my sequel, _Misfit in Minas Tirith_, will be posted today. While I've been working on it I actually got the chance to visit Middle-earth—to visit some LOTR sites in New Zealand, that is!

In Hobbiton I peeked into vacant hobbit-holes; I stood in the shadowy lane where Frodo and his friends first saw the Black Rider; I climbed up Mount Sunday, which is the place that Peter Jackson used for the Golden Hall of Edoras. (Just like Barbarella said, I found that it's a very tough hike!)

I hope that all my readers will want to read the sequel too. In my second book the 'butterfly effect' caused by Barbarella's appearance in Middle-earth will slowly begin to influence the course of larger events. I would love to hear what my old reviewers have to say about these changes—and what new reviewers think too!

**And now, the beginning of Chapter 01...**

The Battle of Helm's Deep had been won. Against all odds, King Théoden's outnumbered warriors had defeated the evil Wizard Saruman's monstrous army of orcs and hirelings. The people of Rohan had prevailed, and just for a few hours, they were pausing to bind up their wounds, to rest, to recuperate, and to rejoice before they went back to Edoras and to, perhaps, a bigger war against the ultimate enemy, Sauron.

But I'm not from Rohan—I'm from Pennsylvania! How was I supposed to know what to do next, when I didn't even know why I was 'beamed into' Middle-earth?

I was sure that the Evenstar necklace my Mom had given me must have had something to do with it, but what?

I was half-asleep and curled up on the bale of hay that I'd commandeered when I was woken by raised voices. Bleary-eyed, I rolled off the haybale and looked around to see what was going on. Two people were yelling at each other at the edge of the space that my kids and I had cordoned off in the Great Hall as a makeshift 'hospital.'


End file.
